


Waves

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Animal Kingdom (TV)
Genre: All the shit that comes with this relationship, But just a smidge of smut, I mean Smurf is Deran's mother, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Let's keep that in mind, Living Together, M/M, Mentions of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Smut, The Cody Family is not the Brady Bunch, canon warnings apply, mentions of past physical abuse, so that's mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Deran and Adrian somewhere between seasons 3 and 4.------Adrian knows Deran.  He knows where every scar is located and what every scar was etched by.  He knows which muscle lines are from surfing and which ones are from fighting.  He knows Deran’s smile.  He knows Deran’s laugh.  He knows them by heart.  He always has.------
Relationships: Deran Cody & Adrian Dolan, Deran Cody/Adrian Dolan
Comments: 59
Kudos: 123
Collections: Animal Kingdom ▶ Deran Cody / Adrian Dolan





	1. I Just Want Us To Be Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just getting my toes wet in this fandom and deciding if I want to dedicate more time to it or not. I love this show and each character individually but I don't necessarily ship Deran/Adrian at this point (though season four did show us a lot about Deran's commitment to Adrian). I think Deran needs a hell of a lot more growth without Smurf being in the picture before I can ship him with anyone - also I am terrified to see where season five takes them, but terrified in all the right ways. I do think that between seasons three and four could be an interesting time to take a few look-ins on them as their relationship is developing on a more intimate/supportive level than we've seen it in the past.

Adrian has always been convinced that there are two versions of Deran. Not in a multiple personality disorder type of way, but in the way that someone who is living a life they are forced to live has two versions inside of them constantly duking it out for space.

There’s Deran Cody. The guy everyone else knows. The one that can’t give an inch for the mile it would take. The one that is violent but never cruel. The one that doesn’t mind the fight, doesn’t mind the steal, doesn’t mind the lies.

And there’s Deran. Deran who smells like salty ocean, sun, sand, and a tinge of sweat when he reaches over Adrian’s face for the lube bottle on the side table. The one who spent the day riding waves. The waves the ocean created. Not the waves his childhood created.

This Deran who sometimes smiles. This Deran who sometimes laughs. This Deran who is constantly seeking affection but would never admit it. And if he gets too much affection, then Deran Cody will rise. 

Adrian likes to think he knows where the switches lie, when the wire is tripped, when the internal argument is won. And most of the time he does. Sometimes he’s caught off guard. Sometimes that Cody boy rises when he’s not ready for it. And can’t get away quick enough, or say the right thing to override him in Deran’s mind. 

But the thing is, Adrian understands why. He gets why there are two men inside the man he loves. He understands. Even if Deran never says it. Not really. But it’s there. It’s there on the beach when he’s riding a wave, when he’s drinking a beer and tugging on a cig, when he’s lounged back on the balcony rolling a joint. And sometimes at night. When Adrian brushes up against him. In those rare nights that he actually sleeps. But it’s there, it’s there in the not sleeping and the fingers that are itching for something more. Something to do, something to beat, something to destroy, something to steal. A beer, a joint, a cig, a board. 

And it’s not that Deran likes to destroy things. Hurt things. Hurt things he loves. But Deran Cody is the product of his raising.

Deran, this is the Deran that Adrian knows. This one with hair still damp from the shower, the shower that can’t wash the ocean off any more than it can wash his childhood off. This Deran who’s kneeling between Adrian’s knees, his body lines sleek and tight, the muscles from surfing and fighting, every line is perfect in the dim glow of the bedroom light. 

He leans forward, lips pressing a whisper of a kiss against Adrian’s stomach as a single slippery finger glides inside his body. And rests while his kisses travel. Not all the way to Adrian’s mouth. Not yet. 

He likes to think he knows all of Deran’s tells. In life, in surf, and in bed. They were friends, growing up together in Oceanside. The same group of friends all the way through school until Deran Cody dropped out, ended up in juvie. Adrian never visited, knowing Deran wouldn’t want him to see him behind bars. It was enough knowing, just knowing he was locked up for a life he didn’t choose. He never talks about it. Just like all the other things that echo around in his head when it’s silent. 

Somedays, like today, the silence is okay. The silence is the ocean’s waves and the breeze blowing sand and salt around them in their bed. But somedays the silence is heavy. The silence is the voice in his head, the one that sounds an awful lot like Smurf, and the hand in his hair.

Adrian sighs, wanting to touch his hair, wondering if today is okay. He still can’t get used to the cut, even though it looks good. And maybe this is Deran’s haircut. Not a Cody haircut. Instead, his hand lands on his shoulder, sliding down his arm. Lingering in the crook of his elbow as the second finger sweeps alongside the first. His breath catches, eyes force themselves closed and he lets himself feel Deran. Deran’s lips on his stomach, Deran’s skin beneath his fingertips. 

He never asked him why Belize. But he wasn’t surprised when he showed up at Adrian’s door with that look in his eye. And he wasn’t surprised when the distance between him and his life made it okay. It made it okay to take that step they’d both been playing at for years. But every time Adrian stepped forward, Deran would step back. It was in Belize that Deran stepped forward. It wasn’t Adrian’s first time with a man, he’d had a couple boyfriends by then. But it was the first time it truly felt like something more. Something more that was still so simple, and so easy, and being around Deran then, it was different. Here, in Oceanside, it’s like walking through a minefield half the time. Say the wrong word and that mask takes over his features. The mask goes on and the eye contact disappears. The Cody shell is hard to crack once it’s sealed. 

Sure, sometimes it’s not like this. Sometimes it’s Deran Cody who shows up for a fuck. Then it’s aggressive and rushed. Lately though, in a new place, a place that belongs to them, a place that’s maybe going to feel like home soon enough. A home he never had. A place that is safe. He won’t step on a used needle or have to wipe blow off the breakfast table before he eats, he won’t have to worry about walking in on his brother fucking or his mother fucking. No one will walk up to him and touch his hair with a threat on her tongue and violence in her eyes. Here, no one will turn their back on him when all he needs is a touch. 

Shifting now, he can feel his body heat starting to mingle with his own in the minuscule space between them as he leans over. His lips finding the hollow of Adrian’s throat and his fingers draw back. The sound of the lube cap again, face turning, resting forehead to jaw. Adrian’s legs unconsciously lock into place around his hips and he gently guides himself inside. Adrian’s breath catches, his body tenses, while Deran’s stills and waits. His mouth working towards Adrian’s now. One hand on his leg, holding steady pressure without putting fingertip-shaped dents in his thigh. The other sliding up his ribs, across his chest, finding his chin and aiming his gaze as his eyes flicker open. Meeting blue in the dimness of the night, listening to the waves outside the open patio door and watching the waves on the surface of those eyes. 

The Deran that Adrian loves is this one. The one that is willing to do anything to make him happy. The one that is going to spend his time loving him right. Spend his days on the beach and his nights in his arms. He doesn’t have to bathe Adrian in apologies, because Adrian knows. He knows. He knows the responses to love woven into Deran’s fabric. He’s seen it. He’s heard it. The bruises that couldn’t be explained by a tussle with his brothers. He’s heard it in the tone his voice takes on when Smurf’s name is mentioned. He’s seen it in the hardened stance his body makes when Deran Cody takes over. 

When he takes a deep breath, Deran leans into his lips, beard tickling his upper lip until he opens his mouth and slots his own lip over top of the blond whiskers. Deran’s tongue meets his and his hips start moving. Slowly, evenly, and if Adrian was going to put a label on it, he’d say sweetly. He feels himself smile against Deran’s lips.

“What’s up?” it’s half jumbled, still locked in a half kiss.

“Nothing,” his hand rises, meeting the back of Deran’s neck. Fingering the short hair there.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Just thinking, not important.”

“Thinking, huh? Now why the fuck would you be doing something that stupid right now?” there’s a twinkle in his eye and he starts rolling his pelvis. Pleasure taking hold of Adrian’s body and he’s certainly not thinking anymore.

————

His head is tucked under Adrian’s chin, breath stretching across Adrian’s chest, rolling slowly out of his mouth as he drifts on that wave he caught earlier. It would have been a perfect ten. Adrian’s sure of it. Deran’s pure natural talent is incredible, when no one is watching. It’s under the spotlight, in the eye of his mother and a crowd that he overthinks it. That his internal wave meets the external wave and he can’t find a way to ride them simultaneously. 

The affection Deran seeks but would never admit to needing. The affection that Smurf always used as currency or punishment. Adrian’s seen her old witch hands do things, touch, in ways a mother should never touch her children. When he thinks of them on Deran’s golden skin, he shudders. 

Unlearning the life his mother taught him. The first few years worth of steps will be stumbled. And Adrian knows that. But he’s moving. He owns a bar, he runs it without the help or stamp of approval from his family. He bought a place, a place on the beach. Walk to surf. And a shower. 

Independence. Baby steps. And eventually the rest will come. Learning what love and affection are truly supposed to look and feel like. Learning what stability feels like. 

‘I just want us to be okay. I just want us to be okay’. 

Adrian takes a deep breath, leans forward to press his lips to the top of Deran’s head, “hey?”

“Hmm?” it startles just a little. Just enough that Adrian realizes too late that he should have let him sleep. He was near sleep, right there, listening to Adrian’s heart. 

“Thought you might be sleeping, it’s alright.”

But it’s too late and Deran can’t allow himself to be needy. Not that needy. He rolls over to his side, sits up with a grunt, reaching for his pack of smokes. Adrian watches as he gets to his feet, an unlit cig clamped in his lips, the dim bedroom light clinging to his muscle lines as he bends for his boxer briefs. He watches as his hand graces the surface of the dresser on the way by, rising with a lighter in his grasp and stepping outside. He leaves the door open, the cool night air rising goosebumps on his body. 

‘You can’t make me feel something I don’t.’

Hands rising to scrub at his face, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. His gaze lingers on Deran’s shoulders in the moonlight. The way his face is aimed at the ocean, the lit cigarette flaring orange when he raises it to his lips, the smoke rolling out slowly to fog over the stars. Rising, dissipating. His hand lowering, landing on the rail and staying. 

Adrian knows Deran. He knows where every scar is located and what every scar was etched by. He knows which muscle lines are from surfing and which ones are from fighting. He knows Deran’s smile. He knows Deran’s laugh. He knows them by heart. He always has. 

But what Adrian doesn’t now is how to make Deran Cody fall to background noise. And it’s not like he can suggest something like couple’s counseling to him. It’s not like Deran would ever admit to there being anything worth talking about, worth getting to the bottom of, worth sorting through and working through. And not just between them, but inside of Deran. He’d never understand the difference between Deran and Deran Cody. And he’d never, fuck, he’d never in a million years put the words on the things his mother’s hands have done to him. 

Stepping into his own underwear and following outside. Quietly taking a seat on the chair beside where Deran is leaning, palms down on the rail. The cig burning unsmoked in his grasp. 

He should say something. He should say anything. Deran is still here, the set of his shoulders, in the bend of his fingertips. But if he says the wrong thing, then Deran Cody will take over. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t tell him that he’s here, that he’s staying. That this is home. That all the things Smurf taught him, those are things he can unlearn. He can let Deran stay on the surface and he doesn’t have to be afraid. 

Afraid of abandonment. Afraid of being the next Julia. Or the next Baz. 

He doesn’t have to prove his worth. He doesn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. Or doing the wrong thing. 

He doesn’t have to worry about that affection turning to violence. That warmth turning to ice. 

He doesn’t have to fight and plot and hurt for his next meal. Or the roof over his head. 

He just has to stay honest. And work hard. And maybe the bar will stay afloat and maybe it won’t, but it won’t be wasted, it won’t be a failure, it’ll be a learning experience. It won’t be a choke, it won’t be the ESPN interview. Adrian won’t berate him and belittle him and throw it in his face. Sometimes it’s okay to take chances. 

Sometimes it’s okay to reach out. 

So Adrian does. Taking the chance, his fingers gracing Deran’s wrist, the inside of it, across the veins and into his palm. The first instinct is to shake it off. He can see that in the tautness flashing through his forearm. But he fights it. Free hand bringing the cig to his lips. Long drag, slow shaking exhale. And maybe the silence has begun to turn. And maybe Adrian reached out at just the right moment, just the last moment. 

His fingers close. Calloused in all the right places, bending around Adrian’s hand. It’s Deran’s hand. And it stays.


	2. Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helpful reminder here that we are talking about Smurf so yes, there are references to child abuse, both physical and sexual.

He doesn’t want to wake him, doesn’t mean to. He has another competition, leaving tomorrow. But Deran can’t sleep. And he supposes a person can only be stared at for so long before it wakes them. 

He should have got up, smoked another joint. Or headed down to the bar early to get the rest of the cleaning done. But when he turned, when his eyes landed on the innocence and the purity on Adrian’s sleeping face, he couldn’t leave. Even if it was just temporary. Walking away is walking away and they’ve both done enough of that. 

Jesus, he looks so fucking peaceful. Like nothing has ever laid a hand on him. Like nothing ever could. Deran knows that’s a lie. He has a scar on the knuckle of his right ring finger from when he knocked that kid’s tooth out back in junior high for calling Adrian a faggot. And he knows, he knows that just by being with Deran, just by lying here, he knows that he’s in constant danger. Whether it’s Smurf, or his brothers, or himself. Nothing he touches is safe.

He doesn’t understand. Why Adrian comes back. Why Adrian always comes back. What he sees in Deran worth keeping. And Deran knows, someday that one thing, the only thing worth keeping, someday it’ll be gone. And so will Adrian.

He doesn’t know why Adrian takes his anger. His aggression. His unwillingness to allow the good. His unwillingness to speak. To say the things that need to be said. He doesn’t know how to make things okay. How to make everything okay. 

But he knows if he keeps giving. If he sponsors Adrian, if he helps him live out his dreams, even when Deran is broke and is borrowing from the bar. If he helps him live the life he wants to live. If he helps him enjoy, enjoy something, anything in this world. And if he buys him the house. The house with the walk to surf. And the shower. If he keeps it nice. And clean. Tidy. If he keeps it looking like a place that Adrian wants to come home to. If he gives, if maybe he can keep giving until there’s nothing left, maybe they’ll be even. And maybe then Adrian will stay.

“Hey,” it’s half mumbled into the pillow, his eyes didn’t even open. Because maybe he's used to that creepy guy lying in bed watching him sleep, no different then that creepy guy standing on the beach watching him surf.

“Hey,” watching his fingers falling, sliding across Adrian’s shoulder. He should have got up, left the room, let him sleep. 

But he doesn’t seem put off by the disruption. His hand finds Deran’s arm, fingers making lines along his skin. Sometimes he wonders if he could just trace those lines with a sharpie and get them inked permanently. 

————

There’s a snake lying alongside Deran’s spine. Sometimes it’s still, and it’s just there. Whispering hisses against his neck. Those hisses are usually dull, meaningless threats. Reliable but muted. ‘It’ll be okay baby’.

Sometimes they’re louder. ‘Six hundred and a bag of smack’. 

Sometimes the snake moves. Slithers around his neck, hisses out of his own mouth. 

If he’s not careful it’ll slide over every vertebrae, wind through his guts and sometimes, sometimes it won’t let him forget. It won’t let him forget. The things he can’t bear to remember but that snake won’t let him forget. As it wraps itself around his hips and sneaks along his thighs. 

Sometimes he can’t control it.

Adrian sighs, Deran feels that snake adjust on his spine as Adrian’s fingers meet the hair on the back of his head. They draw back immediately, fall down his shoulder and find his arm. A deep breath of Adrian’s skin and the snake settles.

—————

Adrian’s out of town. And the house is quiet. Empty. Deran eyes the bed. Empty. And he’s not sure he can sleep in it. Alone. Half the time he can’t sleep in it anyway. 

Alone. 

As alone as he always was in Smurf’s house he was never really alone. Not like this. 

He tries a beer. He tries a joint. He tries listening to the ocean out on the porch. But every time he sits down that snake starts adjusting. Shit, he doesn’t know why it happens this way. Or what stirs it. It should be okay. Okay to just sit here in his house. On his porch. It should be okay. 

But it just feels alone. Deran doesn’t really like people, not the way Craig does. Or Smurf does. The idea of people, they like the idea of people. Deran doesn’t even like the idea of people. But sometimes people halt the alone. Even if he’s still alone in a room full of people it’s different than being alone in an empty house. On the ocean. Empty home. Walk to surf. A shower.

The bar. His bar. Deran’s bar. There are people there but he doesn’t have to converse with them. Not really. Cordial. That’s something he can do. Until he can get enough of a buzz on to get social. Sort of. And then slink away to his office. Watch the surf competition and pass out on the couch. 

—————

It’s only a couple days Adrian’s gone this time. Without a job to keep him busy. Without Smurf’s job to keep him busy. The bar is, it’s the same. And the surf is, it’s fine. For some reason he ends up at Smurf’s. Pope is, he’s being Pope. And Smurf is being Smurf. And maybe Deran was hoping for a party or something. But these two are, hell, J would be more interesting at this point. 

Craig. He must be doing something stupid. And if he isn’t doing anything stupid, it’ll be easy enough to convince him to. He’s not sure what he’s itching for. But he’s itching and if he doesn’t scratch it, he’s certain that snake will start circling his ribcage, sleek as it slithers alongside every rib. It’ll sneak down his spine soon enough. 

Craig’s not doing anything stupid. Or not stupid enough. Just some blow and some video games. He says something about a possible job. Or maybe it’s something about wanting a job. Needing one. Deran’s not really listening. All he can hear is that hissing noise in his ears, ‘it’ll be okay baby’. 

Shit, maybe if he gets piss drunk and heads to Smurf’s house he can get a rise out of her. She always likes her boys the most when they’re out of control. It’s been a long fucking time since Deran’s been out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of short and choppy, but I'm not convinced I have a strong enough voice for Deran so I just wanted to get this out there and get some feedback if you've got the time and energy :)
> 
> There's a few ways this could go. I think between seasons three and four there was a lot of off screen developments with all of the characters that could be interesting to dive into.


	3. Found My Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found My Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to warn every chapter - the show has some pretty strong undercurrents of sexual abuse from Smurf to her sons. So I'm following canon rules. Since this is my first fic for this fandom I'll just say that I don't shy away from the dark shit. But if you see any tags or warnings I missed, feel free to mention it.

He texted Deran his itinerary. That’s usually enough. But now he’s been standing on the curb for forty minutes. Every call goes straight to voicemail. Maybe in a normal relationship this is where a vise would be clamping down on Adrian’s guts, but this isn’t a normal relationship. The vise is useless when the possibilities of why he’s not answering could be endless. But every possibility leads back to Smurf.

—————

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to stay away from Deran Cody before you actually hear me,” her hair is wild, her eyes are narrowed and she keeps glancing back at the sleeping baby like it’s the first time he’s been in a moving car. 

“Wasting your breath,” he tells her dully, watching out the window, the freeway that has no beginning and no ending. Not really. Not one he can see. Fish swimming upstream.

“It’s like battered woman syndrome,” she mutters, almost afraid to say it, afraid he’ll hear it. But unable to stop herself.

“Battered person,” he corrects her. There’s no winning this argument with her. And he gets it. Jess is his sister. And yeah, she’s the only other person who knows about the bathroom incident. But she doesn’t know Deran. She doesn’t know the Deran that is smashing his fists against the Cody shell every single day, every single moment of every single day, the Deran that is trying. Learning. And doesn’t even get snippy, or yell, or ever consider raising a hand to Adrian. Doesn’t mean he’s not capable. It just means he hasn’t. 

But Adrian’s not stupid. Even if that is what most people think.

He’s done stupid things. And he knows smuggling for Jack is stupid. It’s really fucking stupid. But he saw the desperation in Deran after Billy cleaned out his stash. And he can’t live under Deran’s thumb. Even if sponsoring him is just a business transaction, Adrian can’t live like that. He can’t be his boyfriend’s investment. He can be his confidant, his friend, his lover, his alibi. But not his investment. He can’t be a part of the money game. Even if it’s a game separate from the Cody game, it has Cody stench all over it when it’s money. 

Adrian only turns to watch her when she starts driving to her place instead of his, “where you going?”

“He can’t pick you up at the airport Adrian. The least he can do is pick you up here. It wouldn’t kill you to have dinner with us. Spend some time with your nephew. Remind you of what a real family looks like.”

The competition sucked. Being forgotten at the airport sucked. And now this? This sucks. And still nothing from Deran.

—————

He lays on the couch for long enough to know the rest of the house is asleep. Then he folds everything up, and calls an Uber. He’ll text Jess in the morning, some lie about getting their signals crossed for arrival times and Deran picked him up after he closed the bar. It’s not her business anyway.

And this, pushing the door open to Deran’s house. Their house. He’ll get used to that eventually. Maybe.

Their house. Being met with the overwhelming feeling of Deran even though he’s not here, this is the feel of a real family. He didn’t realize how bone tired he was until just now, peeling off his clothes down to his underwear, crawling between the sheets, rolling to face Deran’s side of the bed. Hand on his pillow, sleep takes him easily.

—————

He wakes to the sound of the door, glances at the clock enough to know it’s the usual time he gets home when he closes the bar. He’s fine and he probably forgot to plug in his phone. He’ll come in, sit on the couch to smoke a joint, then he’ll slide into bed. Quietly, he won’t apologize, he won’t wake Adrian purposely, and in the morning when he mentions it, it’ll all sound so nonchalant. The way everything Deran says sounds. But underneath that, it’ll be guilt. And an endless string of apologies that he doesn’t know how to speak and Adrian doesn’t want to hear. 

It isn’t just Deran though. Coming in the house. Adrian hears Pope’s growled warning and the shuffling of feet. Like maybe he’s dragging Deran. Pope’s voice makes Adrian’s spine straighten and his palms film in sweat. He avoids eye contact with him whenever he’s around, most people do. But Adrian can’t hate his existence. An unwelcome memory of Pope beating the hell out of that kid a few grades older than them. Deran never told him why. It was because of Adrian. It was always because of Adrian. Maybe it wasn’t clear in Deran’s mind that consent was given. Maybe in Deran’s mind they were just too young to understand consent. Jesus, it’s not like Deran ever could understand consent. 

Adrian’s eyes close, he swallows hard and starts to get up. Changes his mind when he listens to the bodies getting closer, entering the bedroom. Nearly deciding to pretend he’s still asleep, but Pope’s not easy to fool. 

“Shit,” he’s not bloody, not really, a scuffle of some sort. Just knuckles. Pope looks like he’s been through the wringer, but all the marks look a few days old. And Deran would never be reckless enough to go after Pope. Would he?

“He’s just drunk,” Pope grunts, slinging him towards the bed, dumping him unceremoniously, tugging him by his armpits to nearly the exact position he sleeps in. 

When Adrian reaches for his shoes, Pope’s elbow meets his arm. His eyes don’t leave his brother’s passed out form, muttering, “he’s my brother.”

And it’s all the times he failed to protect Deran. All the times he couldn’t protect Deran. Because he couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t see that Deran needed protecting. Because it was normal to them. It was normal in their house. It was normal. Until Julia found out.

“Okay,” Adrian watches. He’s been relegated to just watching. Pope unties the shoes that Deran rarely unties, just slips them on. Crushing the heel box and he knows it drives Pope crazy. He unties them both. Slides them off. Brings them out to the mat by the door. Adrian knows they’ll be put there neatly, lined up perfectly. Hell, maybe Pope will clean every grain of sand out of the treads before he leaves. The laces will be tucked neatly inside the shoe. His silent message to Deran to keep his shit together. Every time Pope comes over Adrian knows he was here, the kitchen sponges lined up in the window sill. 

He goes for the shirt next. This time, he speaks, wondering, “did you place?”

It’s an accusatory growl, just like everything that comes out of Pope’s mouth. Even when he doesn’t mean it to be, “no,” his hand rises, sliding across his face, wondering how to explain any of this to Deran. He should just come clean about all of it. About Jack. About the arrest. About the deal. But Deran will never understand. He will never understand why Adrian needs some independence. Even if it’s stupid, and he’s breaking the law for it, he needs to have that tiny shred of independence. 

Every single button is unbuttoned and Deran hasn’t stirred. He hasn’t seen Deran like this in, when his eyes close a flash of a memory on his lids, wondering, “he start it?” motioning towards his knuckles.

Pope shrugs, bringing his body forward to peel the shirt off his arms. Deran looks like a ragdoll. Adrian finds himself wondering how many times Pope or Julia or Craig had to take care of Deran when he was a floppy baby. Adrian never factored Pope into that equation until this moment. He always just assumed it was Julia when Deran was a baby, Julia who took care of him when Smurf was drunk or high. He knew it was Craig when Deran was older. Deran was Craig’s shadow when they were kids. Funny how Craig was the one keeping Deran away from the heavy drugs in their house, only to fall victim to it himself.

But the way Pope is handling him right now, it seems familiar. He finally shrugs, when he’s got the shirt up to his nose, sniffing for freshness, deciding it’s time for the hamper, “depends on what ‘it’ is.”

Helpful. 

He has a silent stand-off with Deran’s pants. Maybe knowing, maybe knowing all along. What those old witch hands have done. And maybe knowing himself what it feels like, what it’s like to have those hands, “I’ve got it,” Adrian interrupts his stare-off with his brother’s abdomen.

“No,” his eyes flash over to Adrian, his stance is angry but it’s not alive in the air around him. It’s anger that has no outlet and it never will, “he’s my brother,” it’s dead anger. 

“Okay,” leaning back against the headboard, watching Pope’s internal argument, like maybe he can just leave him passed out with his pants on. When his hand does make contact, Adrian expects Deran to break out of his, “vodka?” induced coma and clamp down on Pope’s wrist. But he doesn’t. Adrian’s breath shakes and he turns away, reaching for his water glass on the bedside table. He supposes he could get up now, get some Alka-seltzer and a glass of water ready for Deran’s side table for morning. But maybe if he does snap out of it, maybe it’s better to be here. 

“Probably,” Pope grunts. 

He can feel the movement on the mattress, knowing he’s got the hardest part behind him and he’s just tugging them off his ankles now. 

A gulp of water, head turning back in time to see Pope pulling the sheet up to Deran’s armpits. His gaze on his brother’s face, it’s almost gentle as it lingers for a moment. Then he blinks and he’s just Pope again. Folding Deran’s pants and glaring at Adrian. 

Through the doorway, into the kitchen, the sound of the faucet. He returns with water and growls something about, “apple cider vinegar,” because of course, Pope would be anti-medication for anything. And then he’s gone. 

—————

He’s on the porch by the time Adrian gets up in the morning. Sitting. Smoking. The sun glistening off the ocean’s waves and spinning gold into his hair. It hasn’t been cut in awhile. Adrian’s wondering if it’s becoming another Cody haircut. Or maybe he cut it, thinking he could cut off every strand that her fingers have petted, and pulled, and growled threats against. Maybe cutting it would erase it. And now he knows it won’t.

His head turns when Adrian slides the door open. Eyes bloodshot but he doesn’t look that bad. 

“Here,” setting a mug of coffee beside his elbow. Stepping around him to make his way over to the empty chair. He won’t ask him how he feels, or why he got wasted last night. Even at parties Deran never gets wasted. Loss of control via substance freaks him out. It always has. Maybe a life of having no control. Maybe seeing the way the people around him have spiraled. 

“Sorry, I should have…”

“Doesn’t matter. I found my way home,” shrugging, leaning back against the wooden chair. 

“Out in the first round, huh?”

Nod. And maybe he should say something here, about his investment falling through. But he just doesn’t feel like talking about it right now. 

“Next time.”

“Sure,” his head falls to the side, peering at Deran in the mid-morning sunlight. The way he’s sort of shrunk into himself, squinting into the sun. God, sometimes he just looks so small. Like the next breeze of saltwater will blow him over. 

It fucking aches. How much Deran has locked in his head. That he won’t or maybe can’t put the words on. That he won’t or maybe can’t trust anyone, even Adrian with. 

‘What would Smurf do with a son that doesn’t want to screw her?’

Adrian can’t really blame Deran for trying to keep him at arm’s length sometimes, “what’s up for today?”

He shrugs, hand rising to slide down his face, “prep the bar, and…”

“Me.”

A smile threatens his lips, turning lazily, arm pretty much just tossing itself at Adrian, hand landing on his thigh, “sure.”

—————

He doesn’t seem like he’s in any hurry to get to the bar. Glazed in sweat, lying on his back, one hand behind his head, the other reached across the bed to rest on Adrian’s chest. Slowly calming back to a normal rhythm. That was, Adrian sighs, head falling towards Deran, that was undertones of Deran Cody with enough Deran in there to make up for the days apart. 

He feels himself smiling for long enough that Deran’s breathtaking eyes land on him, with a little self-consciousness setting in, “what?”

Hand rising, landing on Deran’s, “nothing,” maybe he should tell him any of the things he’s been thinking. Lately, anyway. The things that keep hijacking his brain when they’re together. Instead, his arm falls open and Deran’s sweat-slicked body manages to slot right back into the place it was just moments ago.


	4. Goddamn Sponges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn Sponges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely don't have a voice for Pope, unless I just way overuse punctuation, so you'll have to read it yourself in his halting narrative.

Deran came looking for trouble. He didn’t find it. He just found vodka. And got put in a headlock. 

Pope’s not sure why he was looking for trouble. Or maybe attention. Smurf’s little baby. Always needing attention. 

Smurf’s little baby. 

She used to play the food game sometimes. When they were kids. She’d put only enough food on the table that they had to fight for it. Even the one who won still went to bed hungry. Deran never won. He was a scrawny little shit. Craig wasn’t. Baz, he was the one that would sometimes cave in. Sneak some food into his pocket and bring it to Deran’s room. Tell him to make sure there were no crumbs. 

She’d pit them against each other for all kinds of things. It was all just mechanics for Pope. Perfect the form, release the anger. But the anger never released. It only grew. With every punch and every kick. Now it just settles. Around his shoulders. A blanket of anger. It doesn’t burn. Not now. 

Deran. He said something to Smurf. Got her jaw clenched and her eyes lit with that hatred reserved only for her sons. Mostly for her baby. Her beautiful baby boy. 

Pope didn’t hear it. Deran looked drunk. He can’t remember the last time he saw Deran drunk. Or maybe he can. And maybe he doesn’t want to. There’s a reason Deran only smokes weed. And has the occasional alcohol induced buzz. There’s a reason Deran doesn’t do the hard stuff. And rarely gets truly drunk. 

If he was a mean drunk it wouldn’t matter. Mean is something that’s okay in a Cody. If he was looking for a fight with someone outside of himself. If he picked a fight with someone that was in need of an ass beating. 

But Deran. He gets drunk. And he picks fights with himself. And with those demons that only grow louder with alcohol instead of drowning in the liquid.

Prove it. Always prove it. Prove your place. Prove your worth. Earn your keep with blood and aggression. 

Smurf said a crew takes a brain. The planner. Baz. It takes a big guy who thinks he’ll never run into bigger. The muscle. Craig. And it takes crazy. Crazy makes dangerous. Dangerous makes intimidation. Pope. Then what? Where’s Deran’s place?

Deran doesn’t like something. Deran leaves. Deran comes back with his tail between his legs. Still desperate for a place in the family.

What happened while Pope was in prison? Who filled the danger role then? Was it Deran? Is Deran dangerous? 

Deran drifts. 

He keeps Craig out of trouble. Serious trouble anyway. That’s a big job. He’s not afraid to talk back. To Pope. To Smurf. Used to be Baz too.

Deran communicates. He can deal with people without being a memorable face or voice. 

And apparently he’s not afraid to go outside the family. To start his own shit. To have his own jobs. His own life. Could Deran be the only Cody to have a life? Like a normal person. Like a person who has a job. And a person to go home to. Is that why he came over? Adrian must be gone.

Poor lonely Deran. Can’t stand to be alone with himself. Can’t stand to be around people. People who might see him for the Cody that he is. Poor baby boy. Poor lonely baby boy.

When whatever Deran said elicited the response he was looking for out of Smurf, Pope stepped in. That’s his job. Smurf’s hand was darting out, going in for the grab. His cheeks probably. Maybe he’s the one who is most used to the taste of his own cheeks. Cheeks against his teeth. Until they’re raw. And her fingers. Fingers against his cheeks. Maybe the beard acts as a layer. Some kind of layer between him and her. 

Deran froze. He always does when she touches him. Like that. Does he always freeze? 

Pope shoved him. Maybe he should have shoved her. Maybe he should always have shoved her. But a guard dog is loyal to it’s owner. 

Deran would never touch Mommy. But Deran swung at Pope. And he let him. He remembers when sometimes the scraps would turn into more than just scraps. Deran was tiny. He was a tiny kid. And Craig was never. But it made him scrappy. And shifty. He had to get smarter about his methods the bigger Craig got. Deran’s beautiful baby face was always bruised, busted, bloodied. Julia. She’d get mad. She’d scream at Smurf. Then there was Mark. He knew how to make the screaming stop. With a needle. 

Deran was six when Baz held him underwater until he passed out. It was to prove a point. Pope can’t remember now. What the point was. Maybe if you’re little, then you have to get used to being trampled on and learn to withstand. Maybe that was the point. Deran got good at holding his breath. 

Which also explains why he didn’t stop fighting through the headlock Pope put him in. 

Adrian’s bag was on the table. That’s not where bags belong. And Adrian was in bed. How long was Deran on his self-destructing mission today? 

He’s light. Might be taller than Pope. He’s still a runt. When he flops him on the bed, he doesn’t stir. 

But Adrian does, “shit.”

“He’s just drunk.”

Just. He’s just drunk. He’s just lonely. He’s just scared. He’s always fucking scared. Scared of no one loving him. Scared of abandonment. Scared of always being last. Scared of having his own identity because if he does, she'll only take it away. Scared of drowning. Scared that one day he’ll have to do the dark and terrible shit. And the dark and terrible shit that’s already inside him, the dark and terrible shit that still lingers on his skin and wraps around his thighs, the dark and terrible shit that runs through his veins will be exposed. 

But he’s just drunk. And Adrian’s reaching for his shoes, but, “he’s my brother,” and I never protected him from the dark and terrible shit even though I was supposed to. But the dark and terrible shit had already been done.

The dark and terrible shit. 

Sleeping isn’t comfortable in clothes. And sleeping in a bed in his own house in the safety of his own house. Sleeping in a bed with his boyfriend. Maybe he’s afraid of women. Women’s hands are different than men’s hands. 

Beautiful baby boy. 

Deran was a baby. He was just a baby. That’s why Julia threw the vase. She knew. 

Pope was just a baby once too.

And now Deran’s half undressed. And Adrian’s saying, “I’ve got it.”

But, “he’s my brother.”

He’s my brother. Mine to protect. Mine to harm. Mine to beat. Mine to clean up. Mine to put back together again. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. 

And there’s a reason Deran never gets black-out drunk. 

His hands are tucking the sheets around him. And he says something to Adrian. Adrian’s looking at him like he’s not sure if he should be scared. Or if he should just stay very still and it’ll pass. Pope won’t notice him if he doesn’t move. Isn’t that how everyone looks at Pope? 

Goddamn sponges. On his way out the door he puts them in the windowsill.


	5. My Last Cent

My Last Cent

He has no fucking clue why his knuckles are bruised this time. He knows Pope was here because of the shoes on the mat. And he knows he fucked up. Waking up and seeing Adrian was here, his stuff was here, but Deran didn’t know how he got here. Deran fucked up. His phone must be somewhere. Battery’s probably dead. 

Adrian has that dreamy look, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he looks like a stereotype. Pretty boy with a surfer drawl. So Cal attitude. 

Deran feels his lips turning into a smile, left hand falling to his side table, fingering the coin he keeps beside the lamp. Flipping it towards Adrian who smiles when he catches it, his eyes flitting Deran’s way, twinkly and bright, “seriously?” the coin in his hand, fingering the wavy edge of a Belize one cent. 

“Yeah,” penny for your thoughts. It was the first time they fucked. Deran didn’t know if he wanted to rip his skin off, light himself on fire, or do it again. Adrian was lying there, so godawful beautiful, and so easy. Everything about him has always been so easy, in ways Deran could never be. He flipped a coin at him, wondered, ‘penny for your thoughts?’. 

It’s embarrassing that Deran’s kept the same stupid coin. Ever since then, but Jesus, it was the first time he felt like someone cared. Cared about all of it. And it terrified him. 

Adrian’s looking at the coin, his hand risen. And sure, Deran knows he can touch him. He can touch Adrian. And Adrian can touch Deran. But he doesn’t know how to do this part of it. This part where, taking a deep breath, and sliding in. This part. The part that doesn’t lead to fucking. This part where it’s just touching. Adrian doesn’t even seem to notice at first. Notice that Deran’s trying to maybe climb under his ribcage, maybe there, maybe he could slide alongside Adrian’s spine. Maybe there wouldn’t be room for the snake then.

But now he’s here. He’s against Adrian’s side. Adrian’s warm, his skin is soft. When his hand falls, it lands on Deran’s hip. And it’s okay, it’s all okay but Deran’s heart is starting to race. The silence is deafening, he’s certain Adrian can hear his heart tossing itself desperately against his ribs. His eyes close and he shouldn’t have done this. Tried to climb inside Adrian’s skin. That snake is starting to hiss, ‘it’ll be okay baby’. He can hear it over the rushing in his ears. And Adrian still hasn’t spoken. 

He’s moving. Taking away that warmth. That softness is pulling away from Deran’s body. His eyes stay closed. Even if all he’s doing is getting up for the bathroom, or a drink of water, or something; even if he’s coming back, it just feels, every time it just feels like…

“I’ll need more than a penny,” there’s a smile in his voice and he’s situating. Getting closer. Arm opening from his side, sliding under Deran’s head until his cheek lands on his chest. And fuck, why is this shit so easy? It’s so easy for Adrian. Everything about Adrian is so easy. His heart is beating an easy rhythm and his breath is meeting the top of Deran’s head, whispering through his hair. Whispering just enough, just loud enough to quiet the hisses, ‘six hundred and a bag of smack’.

“Na, I was just,” he pauses to kiss Deran’s head, “you hungry? One of us should probably learn how to cook. We can’t live off take-out forever.”

“Cook? I gave you my last cent for cooking?”

“Your last cent?” his hand is flat on Deran’s back, fingertips a gentle pressure against his spine, “that was my last cent first.”

“Between the two of us, we’ve never had much sense anyway.”

“I guess not,” his fingers move and that snake hisses. It adjusts and Deran’s hand forces itself underneath Adrian’s shoulder-blade, “it can’t be that hard.”

“Hmm?”

“Cooking.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t mean bar food either. I know you can cook. I just mean, I don’t know, dinners for two.”

“Candlelight and all that shit?”

“Maybe,” there’s an edge of embarrassment. Like he thinks maybe Deran will ask him if he’s going to fag it up at pottery barn too.

“Guess I’ll find out, huh?” and he does something weird. But it doesn’t feel weird. His head turns, and his lips land on Adrian’s chest. Taking a deep breath of the salt of his skin and pressing again. And again. Adrian’s hand lands in Deran’s hair and the snake doesn’t move. His fingers tenderly slide through, from the crown to the back of his neck, come to rest on his shoulder. And the snake twists but doesn’t slither. Maybe it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deran's a bastard to try to write. He's one of those 'duck on a pond' type characters - all calm and easy on the surface, frenzied beneath the water. I feel like his mind is never quiet, but not necessarily loud in a run-on sentence kind of way either.


	6. Slice Of Normal

Slice of Normal

He mostly brought up cooking because he thought maybe he should be cooking. Or doing something to earn his keep. Maybe. Not that Deran seems to care that he’s footing the bills. But Adrian can’t just take the free ride. He noticed the cleanliness right away. Deran’s old place was a pigsty. Now he’s been keeping everything, including the toilet, clean. He woke up one morning to the sight of Deran bent in front of the toilet, hands and knees, with a toothbrush, scrubbing along the base of it. It was the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen, but it made his entire body feel like it was turning into some kind of slow rolling lava. 

And it also made him wonder for the first time, if Deran would ever be into bottoming. He wouldn’t. Adrian knows that. But he wondered, because he’d never really looked at Deran that way before. Since he was there already, on his hands and knees, it just, well, of course Adrian’s mind wandered to how he’d look naked on hands and knees. He’d look beautiful. But Deran hates giving up control.

So Deran would hate bottoming. Doesn’t matter anyway, Adrian loves it. Whatever version of Deran shows up to the party. 

But now, of course, that’s how Deran would take it. The cooking comment. He’d take it as something he should do. To prove his worth, to prove to Adrian that he’s committed, that he’s ready and willing to do anything and everything to live up to Adrian’s expectations. Desperate for approval and love. And Adrian hates that because he doesn’t know how to make it go away, how to make Deran understand that he’s here for the long haul. He also sometimes kind of loves that, Deran’s commitment to the small things, the things that seem stupid and meaningless, the things that strengthen the backbone of the relationship just by existing. A slice of normal in a life that is nowhere near.

There are actually candles on the table and Adrian feels himself smiling while he imagines Deran walking into Harbor Gift Shop for a couple of candles. Or did he find them somewhere at Smurf’s?

“Jesus, Deran, I didn’t mean for you to cook.”

“I know,” he smiles. His smile, it’s so real and Adrian’s not used to seeing it rise easily like this, “shower off, it’ll be ready in ten.”

“Okay,” but not before he steals a kiss on his way by.

—————

“That was incredible.”

He’s horrible at accepting compliments, eyes dropping to the plate, cheeks flushing pink under his beard. Adrian’s hand finds his knee under the table and gives it a squeeze as he gets to his feet. The least he can do is the dishes. 

It’s when he’s standing at the sink, listening to the door slide open and Deran reenter, knowing tonight’s silence is just thoughts. Probably about the next job. It’s been awhile, Adrian’s sure they’re planning something. But it’s now, when his hands are in the soapy water, now that Deran will accept the compliment. Walking up behind him and leaning his cheek against his shoulder. A part of Adrian that has been in love with Deran since he was twelve years old, is giddy as hell right now. Over this, something this innocent and non-sexual. Deran who is allowing himself to seek affection. Even if it’s brief, it’s the feel of his body, relaxed against Adrian’s back. There isn’t that air of constant worry, constant thought, enveloping him at this moment. 

It doesn’t last. The quiet, calm moments never do.

Door swinging open with the presence of Craig, “yo, we gotta go.”

“Yeah, tomorrow afternoon.”

“No. Tonight. Now. You weren’t answering your phone shithead. Plans changed.”

“Right now?” he hasn’t noticed that his hand is still lingering on Adrian’s hip. If he realized it was there, he’d certainly draw back, even if it’s just Craig.

“Right now, like right now asshole,” his gaze shifts when Deran sighs and starts making moves towards whatever change of clothes he needs, “hey Adrian. Last comp sucked.”

“Jesus, Craig,” Deran warns from the bedroom.

“What? It did.”

“Yeah and I’m sure he’s aware of that. Doesn’t mean you need to bring it up.”

He shrugs, “whatever bro. Just sayin’.”

And then they’re gone. Adrian’s never sure if knowing or not knowing is better. All the times he’s been covered in bruises and scrapes. For fuck’s sake, Craig got shot doing a job. It’s not a weird thing to worry when they’re gone. 

He finds himself out on the beach, watching the sun go down. Lighting the ocean in pinks and oranges. Smudged across the sky like that sponge painting that Jess did in Charlies’s room. Leaning back on his elbows, wishing Deran was beside him. Rolling a joint and talking about leaving. He hasn’t talked about that in awhile. Maybe his life is feeling complete here, with a house, a bar, and this. All of this. Maybe he doesn’t feel like he needs to run anymore. Adrian was never sure if he was running away or running towards when he’d take off. Running towards a better life. Something of his own. 

Looking over his shoulder at the house. Deran’s house. Where Adrian lives, but fuck, he needs to just tell him, about the bust. He needs to tell him, because Deran knows his way around the system. It can’t just be that they get lucky, can it? But what if he brought it to Smurf to fix it? Then what? Who would end up dead? He can’t tell him. This will work, this deal will work, just bring Livengood to Jack’s supplier, this will work. And he’ll be off the hook. Maybe he’ll tell Deran when it’s all over. He’ll admit that he doesn’t want to just be his house bitch. He doesn’t need Deran to keep giving. And giving. He’d give until there was nothing left. He doesn’t realize that Adrian doesn’t need that. Or even want it. He just wants Deran.

—————

It’s not the front door opening that wakes him. It’s the shower. Deran trying to wash his life off. Soap and water can’t wash it off. Maybe Adrian’s fingerprints can. He waits until his narrow body is in bed beside him, then he turns. Facing him in the darkness, he’s silhouetted by the light of the moon that the ocean throws into the bedroom. Too much light, that’s not a thing, but they found this little place with less daylight but too much moon. Adrian adores it. Deran’s hard edges are filed down here, his eyes soft when they glance across Adrian’s face and linger on his chest. He’ll just lay there and stare instead of making the move. 

Adrian’s used to it. Making the first move. Taking the first step. Sometimes he gets knocked down for his efforts, but not tonight. Deran’s beard tickles a little when he settles in, against his bare chest. And he adjusts again when Adrian’s hand drops, landing on the back of his head, it’s like a slither that his body makes on contact. Like there’s something tickling his back, so Adrian slides his hand down to his shoulder instead and he settles. 

Ask him about the job? No. That’s stupid, it’s not Adrian’s business and the less he knows the better. For both of them. Ask him if he’s got time to surf tomorrow? If he wants a hand at the bar in the morning?

“Are you growing this out again?” that’s fucking genius. He hears himself scoff a little as he says it. It’s just that sometimes Deran’s silence gets to him. He can normally read the silence, but every once in awhile he just wants to shake him. Shake him until that anger comes bubbling out to the surface, it’s the only time Deran ever truly reveals what he’s thinking. When he’s angry. Or it used to be.

He shrugs under Adrian’s hand, “you want me to?” it’s half mumbled since his face is half smushed against Adrian’s skin.

Turning to press lips against the top of his damp head, “you know I don’t care how you look.”

The beard tickles again when he turns, lips to Adrian’s chest. It’s a weird thing, to have intimacy. To have Deran comfortable enough to kiss him, everywhere. Their first kiss was so awkward. But it sparked. And now Deran’s lazy, comfortable kisses that rarely progress to legitimate making out, have become the norm. Lazy and comfortable, and that’s just fine. 

—————

It still feels lazy, but not very comfortable anymore when he wakes with the sun blinding off the surface of the ocean through the window he didn’t bother closing the curtains on. Deran’s still sound asleep, or maybe finally sound asleep and of course Adrian’s bladder is full. His arm is pins and needles under Deran’s pillow.

He’s soft against Adrian’s body. Every line that’s normally taut and ready for a fight is sunk into his side. This is the Deran that Adrian sees every time he looks at him. Even when he’s pulling at his bottom lip and ready to break a bottle or someone’s face, when the undercurrent of anger becomes the unsurvivable tug under the water. Stuck in the seemingly never-ending rolling of waves, crushing him against the bottom, churning him up towards the surface only to tug him back under again. This Deran is the one that gets held under when Deran Cody surfaces. But this Deran is reserved only for Adrian, and only for these moments. 

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper, knowing it won’t wake him, it won’t rip him away from his calm sleep, drag him back into his real world. If it did, then Adrian supposes it’s probably the best way to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to say hello :) You won't find me on social media but I don't mind chatting in comments!


	7. Making Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gunpowderandsunshine wanted more Craig... ask and you shall receive :)
> 
> Warning: allusions to past child abuse

Making Waves

“You could at least have darts,” Craig sighs, eyeing the bar where Deran is leaned over the books.

“I did.”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” his eyes rise, looking all annoyed, “I had darts until you stabbed that guy from Fresno in the eyeball with one.”

“Oh that’s right.”

“Ohhh,” Deran mocks, “that’s right.”

“He was hitting on that hot lesbian chick. And she didn’t seem too thrilled about it.”

He’s looking at Craig like he’s a moron. Not much differently than he ever looks at Craig. But Deran’s the only one that does it in a way like it’s okay to be a moron. Not like he’s judging him for being a moron, “that hot lesbian chick, first, isn’t a lesbian. And second, she had herself covered.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know that?”

“Which part?”

“The chick’s gotta be a lesbian.”

“Why? ‘Cause she wouldn’t sleep with you?”

He shrugs, “yeah.”

Eye roll, “and she looked like the kind of girl that would never go out in public without being armed.”

“Like pepper spray?”

“No.”

“No way she had a gun in those tight shorts.”

“Knife. Probably. Boot. And women, who knows what they put in their bras?”

“Boobs. Most likely. Have you seen her since?”

“No. She was definitely not a local.”

“That’s the appeal.”

His eyes narrow now, like Craig’s less of an idiot, and just a man-slut, “why are you even here?”

“We gotta go check out a possible job.”

“Huh? A Smurf job? Or a J job?”

He shrugs, damn it, he knew Deran would have too many questions. He should have just asked Pope, but, “Pope’s being too Pope lately.”

“So?”

“So, I need some quick cash. Remember that food truck job?”

“Oh, the one Smurf found out about and…”

“Yeah, but this time she doesn’t find out.”

“How’s that gonna work?” the pen is no longer on the paper, it’s kind of jammed up against his chin, half hidden in his beard.

“We don’t tell her. We don’t tell Pope. We don’t tell J. We wash the cash here, and…”

“No. I don’t use my bar for…”

“I know. But just,” his hands come up, pushing his hair back, “I need some damn cash. Man, you wouldn’t believe how much trouble that building has been. The renters there are…”

“Launder it through your building then.”

“How?”

“Jesus, Craig,” the look is back to ‘you’re a moron’. But he shakes his head to himself, “if I show you, then you’ll never bring up using my bar again?”

“Yeah. If you do this job with me.”

His hands drop to the bar, not really smacking it, but not really just resting there either. Eyeing Craig’s face for a long moment, stool scrapping across the floor, “fine. But you really want to scout something now, when Smurf’s already got something in the works?”

“Yes now, now when she’s busy,” reaching for the tequila bottle over the counter.

Deran grabs the bottle before he can bring it to his lips, “bar’s not open yet.”

“Asshole.”

“I’ll meet you outside,” over his shoulder on the way to his office. 

Craig snorts his response, reaches for the bottle again, has it in his grasp when he hears Deran, “I’m serious Craig. Bar’s closed.”

“Asshole,” he mutters again on his way out the door, leaving the bottle behind. 

—————

Feet tapping on the floor, hands tapping on the dash, Deran’s huffs of annoyance growing louder every passing moment, “Jesus, Craig, how much did you snort?” attention turning back to his phone.

“That Adrian?”

Uninterested nod, like Deran wants to keep it all to himself. Of course he would, if Smurf actually knew how important Adrian was to him, she’d find a way to destroy that, wouldn’t she? But Craig doesn’t care. And even though Deran would never believe it if he said it, he’s kind of proud of the runt. Like, truly proud. He might actually stand a chance of living a normal life someday. And Adrian’s his rock. Maybe Craig needs a rock. Nah, Craig’s never been much of one for crack. 

“What’s he doin’?”

His head turns, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to figure out what kind of game Craig is leading up to. Like sometimes he thinks Craig is Smurf. Everyone is Smurf. 

“Just wondering, man. This is boring as hell.”

“Yeah. Scouting jobs is always boring as hell. Maybe you should actually be scouting it. And I’m pretty sure getting amped is a bad choice in a situation like this.”

“I’m allowed to ask you personal questions.”

The look is back to ‘you’re a moron’.

“You’re my brother.”

“And?”

He hears himself snort, shaking his head as an image of baby Deran hungry and crying, his tiny fists balled up and smacking at Craig’s chest as he tried like hell to find Smurf before the poor kid starved to death. He tried giving him milk out of the fridge and Deran puked it back up. Then he tried smashing a banana and Deran drooled it back out of his mouth before any of it went down the hatch. He didn’t know what to do, just that he had to shut Deran up before Pope or Baz heard him. Not that they’d harm him, but he just, Deran was Craig’s to keep watch over even if he was only four himself. Julia was nowhere to be found, probably out with Angela. As a last ditch effort, and maybe to calm himself when Deran reached fever pitch, he set him on a body board, floated him in the pool and made waves for him until he passed out. He was all red faced and still breathing those little cut-off breaths through sleep when Smurf finally showed up. 

Weird the memories that stay. He shrugs finally, “it’s okay to have a personal life.”

He’s silent, lower lip tucked into his teeth, right arm propped on the door of the Scout while he chews silently on that lip and watches the possible target. 

“Did you ever see her again?”

“Uh,” head turning towards Craig, “who?”

“That hot lesbian chick.”

“That hot lesbian chick who isn’t a lesbian? And you already asked me that.”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Is she the one that got away?”

“Maybe. Do you like being gay?”

“What?”

“It’s gotta be easier. Less drama.”

“How is your dating life drama?”

“Dating,” Craig laughs.

“Exactly.”

“But I think if I liked dudes it’d be less complicated to want to date.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It just means, like, dudes are easier to not have to impress. Guys probably don’t care if your place is a pigsty. Or if your dirty underwear are on the lampshade. Don’t care if you fart in your sleep. Do dudes even care if you go out on dates? Or, hell, probably don’t care about condoms and shit like that. Wouldn’t have to worry about birth control at all, and probably have more sex ‘cause dudes are just always horny. Wouldn’t have to worry about a guy bringing twelve tons of clothes over when you say he can have a drawer, ‘cause you can just share clothes. Never have to buy wine or flowers or any of that shit. And you would never have to go buy your boyfriend tampons,” wow, there’s so much ‘you’re a moron’ all over Deran’s face that Craig isn’t sure which part of that was so far off base, but he’s gotta be right, “right?”

“There’s so much not right about what you just said that I don’t even know where to start.”

“I fucked a dude once.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yeah I did. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“Only if you never talk about it again.”

“Why wouldn’t I talk about it? I’m not ashamed.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“But I think the only way to truly know if you’d be a good gay is to bottom, right? I fucked a chick once, talked me into a prostate massage. I mean, I could see how that would suck if someone didn’t know what they were doing, but that chick, she knew what she was doing and holy shit, I…”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“I know you aren’t. I am. And I don’t think I’ve ever…”

Deran grunts, gets out of the Scout, too bad there’s no way to shut Craig out, even if he’s on the other side of the door. 

He watches Deran flick his lighter, lean back against the closed door and spark up a smoke, “I’m not kidding, man. I get it, why being gay is,” he shrugs, not quite knowing how to say it, but, “easier.”

That was the wrong word, Deran spins around to face Craig, eyes all lit up like Craig just poked him with a hot poker, “easier, really?”

“No, not, well,” damn. At least Deran knows Craig’s an idiot.

“Did you grow up gay in Smurf’s house? Were you gay while you were in juvie? You ever see how proud Smurf looked when you and Baz would parade around the house with your sexual conquests? Did you ever,” his voice trails off, he spins around so his back is to Craig again, he looks like he’s trying to shed his skin, like his clothes are making his skin itch and his skin is making his soul itch.   
Sometimes Craig forgets how much Deran hates himself. Or maybe used to hate himself, now that he’s put some distance between who he has to be and who he actually is. 

Craig shrugs to himself, knowing Deran’ll chill out soon enough. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to actually scope the joint out like he was supposed to. A weird thing happens instead. One of those memories that he can’t really decipher, but he can really decipher and he just doesn’t want to. Twelve year old Deran getting sent home from a sleepover at a friend’s birthday party ‘cause he wet the bed. Twelve year old Deran sneaking through the house at night to put wet sheets in the washing machine. Twelve year old Deran hiding in the corner between his bed and the wall one night after Craig woke up to the sound of the bathroom door that joins their rooms. Exiting the bathroom was one of Smurf’s boyfriends. Twelve year old Deran being pulled from public school to be ‘home’ schooled.   
That boyfriend of Smurf’s disappeared pretty quick. But that wasn’t exactly weird for her boyfriends anyway. 

Shit. 

“Adrian home?”

Slow nod.

“You workin’ at the bar tonight? Isn’t Monday your night off?”

“Yeah.”

To the second one probably, “alright, let’s go. This is stupid. Waste of time if Smurf’s linin’ something up anyway, I’ll scrape by for…”

“You want some cash?”

“No. I can,” sighing, rubbing his fingers into his lids, “make it,” the one thing he won’t do is spend borrowed money on drugs. Well, not money borrowed from Deran anyway. Maybe Renn will stop ignoring his texts and float him some blow, “might as well go home D.”

Though Craig sort of wants to invite himself over, hang out with them instead of trying to drum up some trouble to get into, or play video games alone, or burn off this high on his bike. Between Adrian’s training, Deran’s commitments, and just having lives, means they probably don’t get much time alone even living together. 

“I’m a…”

“Just stop talking. Before you dig the hole deeper.”

Maybe someday he’ll quit relying on Deran for any sense of stability, but apparently today is not that day. 

“How do you know she’s not a lesbian? Does gaydar work in reverse?”

“Jesus, Craig,” at least he gets back in, and looks pretty settled by the time he pulls the door shut. Craig probably should have just asked him to go surfing this afternoon instead. Maybe he should text Adrian and warn him that he’s stirred up a little tornado and he’s sending him home that way, but, he supposes that Adrian is pretty used to the tornados by now and he probably knows a better way to calm them. 

Damn it Deran. Shit, it’s probably Craig’s responsibility to start the dialogue. Maybe a different day, he thinks as he turns the engine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it's pretty damn clear Smurf is abusive physically and emotionally. Sexually at this point I'm leaning towards a yes, but can only speculate based on some of the behavior of her kids and the overall undertones to her character. Season one we saw most of her abuse directed at Deran, I think she views him as the hardest to control while she views Craig as the easiest to control.
> 
> I don't think I'm off base in thinking it's possible for all kinds of people to have been in and out of that house, in and out of the kids' lives, and I figure I'll pile that little bit of extra on Deran because I need to get further in his head and the best way to get further into a character's head? Break them. See them at their most vulnerable. 
> 
> Oh Craig... I don't think he ever means to stir the pot when he does stir it, and I certainly don't think he's stupid, he's just.. Craig :) Somewhere in season two when Baz said, 'Deran can take care of Craig but without me Pope is dead in a year', kind of made me think about when the dynamic between Deran and Craig would have changed. From Craig taking care of Deran when they were kids to Deran taking care of Craig in their adulthood. Hmm... maybe some flashbacks to the teen years will be necessary?


	8. Current

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: uncomfortable sexual content and mentions of past child molestation.

Current

Adrian hip-checks the dresser drawer closed, in rhythm to the beat of the music he has blaring from his phone. It’s easier to do house chores when there’s good music going. Laundry, the amount of dirty laundry that Deran produces, it’s insane. At least they don’t have to bring it to Smurf’s house to wash it. Using J’s laundromat, yeah a laundromat seemed like a weird investment for a nineteen year old kid, but at least it’s an investment in real estate instead of the normal shit a nineteen year old kid would spend his money on. Sure, it’s probably some kind of front for the illegal activities that Adrian decides to turn a blind eye to, but supporting J’s money laundering by laundering his clothes and Deran’s clothes, is still easier than dealing with Smurf to use her machine. Or making Deran deal with Smurf. Deran, how the fuck does he deal with her after all she’s done? Adrian’s dad was a dick when Adrian came out, but he didn’t disown him or anything, he’s made it clear that Adrian better not do any of that queer shit in front of him or his family. Which only makes it easier to stay away from the family that Adrian mostly can’t stand to be around anyway.

But Deran, he has Smurf. As a mother. Adrian gets the distinct impression that she would turn any of her boys in to protect her own ass if it came down to it. Fuck Smurf, “Jesus, Deran,” his heart leaps into the back of his throat when he turns to see his boyfriend standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His body language suggests relaxed, but his eyes are locked on, giving away his bluff, “how long have you been standing there?”

“I can fold my own laundry,” defensive and accusatory at the same time.

“I know that,” slowly, registering right away that Deran’s in a mood. A Deran mood. One he won’t talk about, not really, but he’ll bite a little, not enough to draw blood, just enough to get a rise out of Adrian. If he gets the rise he’s looking for, then he’ll get the argument he’s looking for, and Deran Cody will be showing up. Adrian is not in the mood for Deran Cody. If he’s slithering around under the surface, something probably happened when he was out with Craig. It’s his night off from the bar. Adrian sighs, this was supposed to be an easy night. Fuck, he thought he might even be able to convince him to watch a movie or something chill. He doesn’t feel like going to the bonfire, hoping to have Deran’s attention all to himself. 

His bottom lip is getting folded over his teeth in that way the makes his flavor-saver stand straight up, in the way that makes Adrian want to take the clippers to his face some night when he’s sleeping. But waking Deran like that? Certain death. 

“Hey Adrian, how was your training session this morning? Oh Deran, I didn’t see you standing there, it was great and I’m exhausted in all the right ways. Want to spend the evening just chilling in front of the TV or something? Maybe sit out on the porch and watch the sun go down, we don’t do that enough, I knew we’d take the view for granted if we bought the house on the beach, but the house on the beach is perfect so maybe we should spend some damn time in it sometimes, you know? Order a pizza or something even, and…”

“Do you top?” his face is fully resisting expression.

Uh, “what?”

He’s a stone wall. Aside from his eyes, they’re dropping from Adrian’s gaze, pausing on his lips, and then stalling out completely on his chest.

No matter what Adrian says here, it’ll be the wrong thing. Admit he’s topped other guys when he was single? Admit he doesn’t want to top Deran because Deran would hate bottoming and he doesn’t even want to introduce the idea to him because it would add a weird layer to their sex life that doesn’t need to exist? Admit that he knows, without saying that he knows, because if Deran knows that Adrian knows shit about his childhood that he shouldn’t know? Deran would freak out if he was ever confronted with having to talk about the hands on his body that didn’t belong there. And what if there was more? Adrian manages to keep himself from cringing visibly, forcing his voice steady, “I don’t want to top you. If that’s what you’re asking.”

His hand rises, tugging at the beard, eyes dropping further down Adrian’s body. Shit. That was dumb. Rejection might be the worst thing Adrian could ever do to Deran, “I don’t mean it like I wouldn’t, if it was what you wanted. I just mean, if you’re asking because you think I’ve done it with other guys and you can’t handle thinking that I’ve done things with other guys that I’ve not done with you, then I don’t want to,” possessive fucker that he is, “if you want to bottom for purely your own reasons, then sure, I’d top. I’d do whatever,” shrugging, hoping the eyes will rise but they don’t. Adrian clears his throat and tries again, “I’d do whatever you want to do as long as you want to do it.”

Those gorgeous blues dart over to the far side of the room, his body is still pretending to be relaxed, thumb and forefinger tucked into his beard. Lazy nod, wondering towards the bare wall, “how was training?”

Apparently that last exchange never happened, “it was good. You wanna stay in tonight? Maybe watch a movie?”

“Sure,” pushing off the doorframe, aimed for the bathroom, “order a pizza.”

He wonders how much of his life he will spend wanting to reach out and shake that man’s shoulders, as the bathroom door closes behind him.

—————

What the hell is he doing in there? The shower was like the longest shower known to man. Now the shower’s been off for ten minutes. And he’s still in the bathroom. Maybe he heard Adrian’s mind wondering about shaving off his beard. Deran without a beard? Nah. Besides, he hasn’t heard the clippers. 

Adrian tosses Surfer Magazine onto the coffee table, about to get up and check on him, when the door clicks open. Finally, “where you want me to order pizza from?”

“Wherever.”

“Knockout or what?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

He sighs, tipping his head back against the couch and letting it roll towards where Deran is exiting the bedroom door. Towel tucked around his waist. He’s missing Adrian’s eyes when he looks him over. Keeping his focus on his chest until he’s standing in front of him, skin pink still from the overly hot showers he takes. He’s a lizard, always seeking heat. 

Blue orbs dropping down Adrian’s chest, stomach, as he gets to his knees between Adrian’s legs. He’s hungry, but it can wait. If Deran wants to suck his dick like the champ he is, his stomach can wait. Lifting his butt off the couch when Deran tugs on his waistband. The contact of his mouth immediately makes Adrian’s head tip back, his hand rise to land on Deran’s arm. Wiry muscles under his fingertips. He loves the feel of his body beneath his fingers, even if sometimes his body wants to shed his own skin on contact. That’ll change, that’ll go away. Eventually. 

He’s lost in the feel of Deran’s mouth on his dick, the way his arm is flexing every time his fingers dig into Adrian’s hip. Every time he breathes through his nose, it tickles across Adrian’s groin. Tracing a taut line up Deran’s arm, meeting his shoulder, sliding over to his neck and remaining there. Feeling his head moving, but not putting pressure on. 

Orgasm is pooling up in his belly, curled tight around his abdomen, crawling it’s way towards Deran’s mouth, but then it’s gone. Before Adrian can open his eyes, he feels Deran’s weight on the couch, knees sliding in close to Adrian’s hips. He feels his mouth open, wanting to tell him to stop when he smears lube on Adrian’s cock, but it’s too late.

“Damn it Deran,” he takes it all quick and stays seated. Adrian’s hands grasp at his hips, willing him to stay still for a minute, “could have let me do that,” his face is already buried in Adrian’s neck. Forehead lodged so tight against the handle of his jaw that he can’t turn his head, “take it slow, alright?”

No response, bastard his holding his breath.

“Hey, hear me? Slow, right?”

It’s either a nod or he’s just adjusting to try to get inside Adrian’s neck. Live against his pulse. 

“Deran,” it barely exits his mouth, shudders and what was he going to say? I love you? Three words that he can guarantee Deran has never heard? And he’s going to say it when Deran’s forcing himself to do something just to prove he’ll do anything for Adrian? Possessive and territorial as always, if he can’t mark Adrian, he’ll mark himself using Adrian to do it.

His hands slide up Deran’s back, fingertips along his spine and Deran’s body tenses, acts like it wants to slide out of his skin. Shit, “Deran,” what the fuck is he going to say? I love you. It rises to the tip of his tongue and gets stuck there. Damn it. His breath shudders, his arms wrap around Deran’s waist, hands on his hips. Deran’s hands are braced on the back of the couch, behind Adrian’s head. His knees are lodged under his armpits, bony alongside his ribs, if possible his face is getting even closer to Adrian’s skin. 

He takes a breath. Finally. It shakes. It comes out in an unsteady puff across Adrian’s neck. Tilting down to kiss his shoulder, if he won’t come out of his hiding spot to allow a real kiss, then he’s going to have a seriously sloppy kiss-lined shoulder. 

The kiss spurs his pelvis, rocking, “slow Deran. Please,” it’s a whisper against his overheated flesh, the scent of soap lingering over the salt of the ocean but it can’t quite wash it away, “for both of us,” he adds, knowing if Deran thinks that Adrian is insinuating that he can’t take it, then he’ll prove that he can. That he can take it hard and fast, he can get out of control quickly. How many times has Adrian seen it happen? That switch. 

He’s not lying about needing it slow. He was ready to bust with just Deran’s mouth on him. And now this, Deran feels exactly the way Adrian thought he would. But he also feels like something is breaking. He feels delicate and small in Adrian’s grasp and he’s afraid to move. Every ounce of him wants to thrust up into Deran, wants to force his face away from his neck and tangle their tongues, wants to slide his fingers through his hair and go at this with the reckless abandon that they used to when Deran was sneaking in his apartment at night. Armed with a crowbar, a hard dick, and an unbridled passion. Part of him wants Deran to feel all the times he’d wrecked Adrian’s body, mind and soul by walking out after with the promise of, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’. When all Adrian wanted was for Deran to stay. 

And now all Deran wants is for Adrian to stay. And how long can ‘I just want us to be okay’ keep swirling in the air around them before it drowns them both? His mind is jolted back into his body when he feels Deran’s hands crawl off the back of the couch and slip along Adrian’s shoulders. Wrapping tight around him so there’s no space for air between them. His gasps are coming out wrong. Adrian knows this pattern. There’s nothing he hates more in this world than when Deran is biting back tears. 

“Deran,” again and then what? What? I love you. I love you and I’ve loved you since were kids and I’ve never loved anyone else and I never will. But damn it, I can’t navigate you anymore, maybe I never could, maybe I never can. And now I have this giant secret sitting between us and it’s only a matter of time before you find out and I can’t bear for you to find out. I hate lying, I hate lying to you but I can’t admit that I was smuggling for Jack when I’ve made you feel bad your entire life for being Smurf’s errand boy. For doing all of her illegal shit when I turned around and did the same damn thing. 

Fuck. Adrian knows how much Deran detests the hard stuff. He’d fucking hate Adrian if he knew. It needs to go away. It’ll go away. He’ll get through this. He’ll get through this, he’ll give Livengood what he wants and it’ll be over. And someday, a ways down the road, someday when more time has passed, when Deran Cody is all but buried six feet under, he’ll tell him. He’ll tell him and it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay because when Adrian leads the cops to Jack’s supplier, they’ll raid and they’ll shut it down. So Adrian will have at least contributed to that. To shutting down a drug operation. It’ll go away. It has to go away.

“Deran,” Jesus, this time it’s thick with all of the emotions that are bubbling up in Deran’s body and sliding past his eyelashes, wetting Adrian’s skin. What is he doing? Why is Deran’s name the only thing that will get past the ball in his throat? When there are a million other things he should be telling him. 

A deep breath, his lips bury themselves in Deran’s shoulder and stay there. Pressing kiss after kiss after kiss against his skin. A film of sweat has risen and his skin is pink. He’s moving, but just barely. Rocking slowly, so slowly, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s too much. He feels his fingers clamp down into the lean muscles of Deran’s lower back while everything in his body goes numb and too hot, the inside of his eyelids gets dark and too bright at the same time and his breath halts. When air reenters his lungs, the blindness recedes but all that remains is, “Deran.”

Deran who is shaking like a leaf. Who is gripping Adrian’s shoulders like he’s hanging off a trapeze that’s swinging over the Grand Canyon. Deran who is holding his breath again. Holding his breath to force back the raging emotions that he won’t acknowledge. And the only way Adrian will ever know them is by touching the current running fast and wild under his skin.

He doesn’t bother trying to pry him loose, doesn’t want to anyway. He doesn’t worry about the fact that he didn’t come, he knew he wouldn’t. He doesn’t acknowledge the tears or the cut-off breaths. He doesn’t try to convince Deran to clean up. Or even attempt to shake his face loose from where it’s still glued between Adrian’s jaw and shoulder.

He just tips them over. Holding Deran as close as possible while he tangles their limbs in a more comfortable weave to lie on their sides on the couch. And he listens. He listens as Deran’s breathing evens out only to break off again when he whispers, barely audibly, “there was a,” cutting off again. Clearing his throat, trying again, “there was a boyfriend of Smurf’s once,” it stops. And all Adrian can do is hope he doesn’t finish that sentence. And it’s not that he doesn’t want to hear it, that he doesn’t want Deran to say it, that he doesn’t want to know. It’s that he can’t bear it. He cannot bear to hear it and know it. He cannot bear to see yet another layer of horror that lies inside of the man he loves. 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. And he barely moves. Only his face, only enough to exit his hiding spot. Only enough to allow Adrian’s lips to meet his forehead. And stay.

—————

Deran’s fingers are playing some kind of pattern against Adrian’s sternum, like he’s typing in some kind of code to open a secret door that he can slide inside and stay there. Aside from that and his calm, even, breathing, he’s not moving. Or speaking. 

It’s still light outside, starting to dim. Adrian’s stomach is about to growl, if Deran hears it, he’ll blame himself. Since that’s his go-to. Blame himself for any distress Adrian could possibly be feeling. 

His lame attempt to cover the grumble by clearing his throat fails miserably.

“Shit,” body going taut, “I fucked up dinner.”

Adrian’s arms tighten around his lanky frame, “pff, I’m not going to starve,” he feels like he’s going to crush his ribs with how tight he’s holding onto him to keep him in place. Leaning down to kiss his forehead again, “it’s fine. I like being your pillow,” and he doesn’t have to say, ‘confidant, lover, friend, embrace’, because Deran knows that. He has to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the thing. Until someone actually confirms that Smurf sexually abused her kids, we can only speculate. The article below is one that pretty cut and dry presents some things that I think are pretty obvious behavior patterns in all of the Cody boys (granted, there are plenty of other reasons for those behaviors as well, but I think it's pretty clear that they've been emotionally, physically, and psychologically abused by their mother as well). I understand that sometimes adding other layers to these characters takes it too far for some readers so I always try to warn and tag properly, but again, if I missed any warning, feel free to let me know. 
> 
> https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/somatic-psychology/201303/trauma-childhood-sexual-abuse
> 
> Sexual abuse is something that should never be taken lightly, it takes years/decades to heal from and if you are a survivor of abuse then please know that you are brave and strong. I always try to write these heavy topics with the respect they deserve. I might be adding these non-canon events to the canon timeline and storyline, but it still feels like it fits to me and makes sense as far as these characters are concerned. This is not meant to be an AU, this particular work is something I wanted to use as a place to connect S3 and S4 for Deran and Adrian. We saw in S3 their relationship beginning to rebuild and their friendship still staying strong. And by the time we picked back up with them in S4 they were all moved in and sharing much more intimacy than we'd seen at any point before. Their trust level was up to a point were Adrian was okay with being Deran's alibi, and Deran was trusting that in him - and going commando in each other's shorts... that's trust ;)


	9. For Both Of Us

For Both Of Us

It’s Adrian’s hands on his back. He knows this. It’s Adrian’s body against his. He knows this. It’s Adrian.

But it’s not. It’s not. It’s Smurf. Whispering in his ear, ‘it’ll be okay baby’. It’s Smurf. Stroking through his hair until his head tilts back, ‘it’ll be okay baby.’

“Deran.”

That’s Adrian. And he breathes. And he feels Adrian’s hands, and Adrian’s chest, Adrian’s arms. 

But it’s not Adrian. It’s not him. It’s a voice. In the darkness. It’s a voice. Just like all the other voices that were in and out of the Cody house. Friends of Smurf. Friends of Baz. Friends of Craig. Anybody and everybody who wanted to party. Who wanted a drink. Or some blow. Or some weed. 

Anybody and everybody who wanted to party.

“Deran.”

That’s Adrian. It’s Adrian’s hands and Adrian’s arms and Adrians thighs under his butt. That’s Adrian.

But it’s not. It’s not Adrian. It’s a hand. First on top of his sheet. The sheet pulled up to his shoulder. Then beneath the sheet. 

“Slow Deran.”

That’s Adrian. It’s Adrian’s mouth against his shoulder and his breath on his skin. His skin is hot but his insides are cold. 

But it’s not Adrian. It’s that snake. The one that lives alongside Deran’s spine. The one that hisses it’s curses into his ear. The one that rises whenever Deran doubts himself, ‘a bag of smack’. 

“For both of us.”

That’s Adrian. It’s for both of us. For us. There’s never been an us. Not in a true sense of the word. In Deran’s life. There’s been a family. We’re a family. We’re a family. How many times? How often? But where was Deran’s family when he blew the ESPN interview? When he shot up in the bathroom afterwards with a needle he’d found in Julia’s purse the last time she had come over. The last time she had left with tears streaming down her face and her son tucked under her arm. 

Where were they when he was babbling nonsense in the stall? Where were they when he was falling apart? When that first warm flush and rose colored painting on the world around him blotted out reality. When he could see so clearly for the first time in his life that his life was not his own and it never would be. Even if he could make it his own, his body would still belong to those hands. There would never be a way to erase that. To erase that touch. That feel. There would never be a way to make that go away.

For both of us. 

I just want us to be okay.

For both of us.

You can’t make me feel something I don’t.

“Deran.”

Adrian. It’s his breath on Deran’s shoulder. It’s his hands, his warmth, his embrace. It’s his pulse against Deran’s closed lips. 

Where were they then? 

It was Adrian, it’s always been Adrian that reaches out for him when he’s trying to walk off the ledge. Deran is sick and tired of balancing on that ledge with the storm whipping around him and the only thing that’s ever calmed that storm is Adrian. 

For both of us.

—————

A pizza, a few beers, a joint, Endless Summer on TV. He’s certain Adrian could watch that film a million times and never get sick of it. Adrian’s thighs are under the pillow that’s under Deran’s cheek. His stomach is occasionally speaking it’s digestion behind him and his chest is moving against the back of Deran’s head. It’s Adrian’s skin against his fingertips where he’s stuffed them under his leg. It’s Adrian’s hand tapping some kind of code against his bicep, a gentle code. A code that Deran could decipher if he hadn’t smoked the joint. 

At some point, he decides watching Adrian’s chest is more interesting than watching the movie. At some point, he decides that tracing the dents in his sternum is more important than feeling the hair follicles on his leg. Pads of his fingers reading like Braille is typed out on his bone. How many times has he knocked his wind out on his board? Deran remembers watching him do it after a particularly hard crash just a few months ago. He always smiles though. After the wind reenters his body. He smiles. Adrian always smiles. Unless Deran takes that smile away.

And he’s doing it right now. When his gaze leaves the TV screen, or maybe it left the TV screen as soon as Deran turned to face him, it’s landed on Deran’s face, lingering there. There’s something sad tugging at the edge of his smile and Deran hates that he’s the one who put it there. Deran’s life without Adrian is nothing. Adrian’s life without Deran would be so much easier. Sometimes Deran wishes he was strong enough to let him go. Let him go for real. Not chase him away like last time. But let him go. 

His hand rises, it lands on the back of Deran’s head and that snake doesn’t twist, eye contact locked on, something flashes in his blues, something telling him that he’d always come back anyway. So there’s no sense in trying to let him go. He can’t scare him away with all the shit in his past. Maybe he thought he could. Maybe he thought he could show him how tarnished he is, inside and out, and maybe Adrian would take off running and never look back.

Maybe it’s just another Cody rite of passage. Just like the first heist. The first shot. The first kill. The first ink. The first beating. The first broken bone. The first hand under the sheet. The first beer. The first sentence. The first parole. The first community service. The first admission. The first admission to all the shit. Deran is terrified that one day he’ll look in the mirror and he’ll see Pope staring back at him. He’ll see on the outside all the darkness that lies within. He’ll see that haunted look. He’ll look in the mirror and he’ll see Craig. He’ll see a junkie. With a death wish. He’ll look in the mirror and he’ll see Baz. He’ll see death. Or worse. He’ll look in the mirror and he’ll see Smurf.

He’ll see everything that she raised him to be.

Maybe one day he’ll ask. He’ll ask Pope or Craig if it’s just a rite of passage. If the hands beneath his sheets were the same hands beneath theirs. If the hands still chase their thighs sometimes at night. If the whispers still stir against their hair sometimes. If they deserved it too. If they feel dirty too. If they feel unlovable too. If they feel like the one good thing, the only good thing they’ve ever had, is too good. It’s too good. 

And that one good thing, that only good thing, his hand is rising, it’s sliding along Deran’s cheek and resting in his beard. And that one good thing, that only good thing, is smiling. Smiling gently as he leans down, pressing his lips against Deran’s forehead. And lingering.

But that one good thing. That only good thing. It won’t last. It never does.


	10. Passing At The Wrong Time

Passing At The Wrong Time

Adrian’s eyes skim over the ceiling, the shadows cast by the moon, listening to Deran breathing beside him. On the far side of the bed. Curled half into himself, facing the wall. His right hand is on the pillow in front of his face and his fingers keep grasping at the pillowcase, like he’s feeling for grains of sand embedded in the cotton.

He knows better than to ask, but going in without some kind of verbal warning would, at the very least, startle him. So, “I’m going to spoon you.”

“What?” he’s not impressed, rolling onto his back to bar the spooning.

“Okay, then I’m going to plaster myself to your side,” scooting across the empty mattress between them, leaning up on an elbow to linger over his face for a moment. How does someone hate cuddling so much, but thrive on affection? Without malice, without harm, without using it a weapon.

“Why?”

“Why not?” instead of kissing his face, he dips down and kisses his chest. Chest to belly, maybe a blow job can soften his resolve. His lips get to just below his bellybutton when Deran’s hands slide across his jaw, lifting his face to watch him over the expanse of his tanned chest. There’s something in his eyes that Adrian can’t quite read but his head is shaking slowly.

Not the first time Deran’s joy stick has been less than joyful. Of course, he just sort of, kind of, began to talk about it, of course it’s not interested. Sometimes Adrian is certain he fits the stereotype of an idiot surfer dude, fuck. Oh well, kissing on his stomach and chest isn’t going to end either of their lives or start any argument. Hopefully. 

The original plan of spooning is off the table, but lying here with his head on Deran’s slowly beating heart, is just fine. As long as Deran is just fine with it. 

Adrian can’t remember the first time he ever laid eyes on Deran. He just remembers him always being a part of his life. Whether it was school, or the beach, or skating, or surfing. He was twelve when he really started living the surf, he was so single-minded about it. He and Craig both quit school that year. Craig had just gotten his license even though he’d been driving for years by then. No one questions a fourteen year old that looks like he’s eighteen. Sometimes they’d take Adrian along to the competitions. He didn’t realize back then that more often than not, the cars were stolen and not some borrowed from a family friend thing like they said. He didn’t realize back then that they were running away from home every single time they got in the car. He didn’t realize why and he doesn’t know why he never questioned it. Maybe it was because Deran’s sparkly eyes could always make Adrian do anything. Maybe it was because at twelve years old something changed so quickly and irreversibly about his best friend and he couldn’t figure out what it was, maybe he blamed it on his own changing hormones and the nagging feeling in his stomach that he was gay. That he was gay and he was in love with his best friend who was turning into someone that Adrian wasn’t sure he recognized anymore.

He tilts his face, chin against Deran’s chest, waiting for him to meet his gaze, wondering, “you remember when we met?”

“Yeah,” instant and certain.

“Really?”

“Preschool at the good ol’ Kiddie Academy. I killed your Amargasaurus with my T-Rex. Told you he was a pussy and I didn’t like your orange shirt. You asked if I wanted to share your apple slices at snack time.”

“I feel like you’re making that up but it sounds too right to be wrong.”

The only verbal response is a snort while his hand rises, fingers tracing down Adrian’s arm, finding his hand and pressing between his own. When he turns his palm up, they link like they’ve never been apart, “believe it or not, I remember our first kiss too.”

“You do? You were so drunk, there’s…”

“Not that one,” the smile is rising gently, sparkles beginning to toss themselves across his irises like the sun off the ocean at midday, “kindergarten.”

“What?”

“I smashed my knee up when I fell off the monkey bars.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to walk across the top of the bars, you know.”

“You remember then?”

“I remember you falling off the bars because you’re kind of an idiot.”

“Yeah,” his lips are still smiling, his free hand has found Adrian’s hair, stroking through it behind his ear to the back of his head, “you said you’d kiss my boo-boo but it was bleeding and you didn’t want blood in your mouth,” the eye contact falters, his breath catches, “kissed my cheek instead.”

Adrian knows he’s thinking about the blood in Adrian’s mouth, the blood that Deran caused. Clenching tighter to his hand.

“I’ve always been a dick to you,” barely a whisper.

He hasn’t, “good thing I like dick.”

The smile is pained. Jesus, Deran, just come out of that shell. But Adrian doesn’t know how to get him out of that shell without smashing it open and watching him spread thin and transparent at his feet. 

Another kiss against his chest. How does he tell him that he doesn’t have to be standing alone? He never has to stand alone and he never really has. 

“Remember that run down place in Belize? The last place we stayed. We were out of cash. Everyone else had bailed by then, headed home. It was just us. You wouldn’t sleep in the bed because you insisted there were bedbugs. We slept on the floor,” the nights were perfect then. It was fire, every morning Adrian woke up to a red sunrise, fire reflecting off the sea splashing blood stained hues across the run down shack and it was beautiful. Ashes in the sand right outside the door, right outside the door that they left open all night. They had nothing, not a thing worth stealing aside from their boards and wetsuits. They fell asleep every night watching the fire turn to embers turn to ash as they made love in the glow of the setting sun. Adrian had never known Deran’s body that way before. And he’s only known it that way since in these moments. These quiet moments, underneath him, where’s he’s pliable and allowing himself to feel tenderness. He’s allowed himself to be vulnerable and Adrian hasn’t used it against him, hasn’t taken his fear only to use as a weapon, hasn’t taken his weakness only to use it as his own strength. 

Sometimes Adrian wants to light all this on fire. Take Deran when it’s nothing more than ashes on the beach and run. Leave every part of this life behind. Spend the rest of it chasing the waves and happiness. True happiness. 

When Deran was ready to run, Adrian wanted to come home. Home from Belize, back to school, back to Oceanside. Now that Adrian’s ready to run, it’s Deran who can’t leave. Can’t leave the bar, can’t leave the house he owns. Maybe he never can. Maybe they’ll always be passing at the wrong time. It’s always been the same. Maybe it always will be.

Maybe this won’t last. Maybe Deran’s life will catch them. Maybe Adrian’s mistake will catch them. But right now? Right now, what Adrian knows, what he knows so clearly and so irreversibly, that no matter what, no matter what part of them ends up in shattered pieces on the floor, they’ll never stop falling. He will never stop falling.

—————

“What about Big Bear?” his fingers have found Adrian’s hair, his heart is beating a slow enough rhythm that Adrian was starting to think he was asleep.

The smell of weed slinking around the bedroom on every breeze that wafts through the cracked open window, “you’re more of an otter.”

“Huh?”

“What?”

“Big Bear. For Christmas. Or something.”

“Christmas?”

“Yeah. I mean, we don’t do anything for Christmas. But, if you wanna hang out with your family, or, I could, you and I could,” it halts. Deran’s heart slaps his ribcage and moves Adrian’s head with it.

“No. I’d never make you sit through a holiday dinner with Jess. You guys don’t do anything?”

Shrug, he’s trying to breathe like a normal person. If he could just convince Deran that he can say whatever he wants, Adrian won’t bash him for it, “not really. Smurf just always gave us shit whenever we wanted it. She never made a big deal of holidays. Just birthdays. Kind of.”

Whatever that means, “you talking about skiing?”

“What? I could shred some snow,” now he sounds like an uncool dad trying to be the cool dad. 

It makes Adrian smile, “I know you could. I just can’t picture you in the snow.”

“No?”

“No. But yeah, if you want to head up there Christmas morning or something. I could tell Jess I’ll do Christmas Eve at her place. You, um, I don’t expect you to, but you wanna come along?”

“Jess hates me.”

“All the more reason to come,” his finger traces over Deran’s prominent hip bone, sending a line of goose-bumps up his side. He’s calm, he’s easy, and he’s talking. And maybe Adrian can get his dick interested, “but it’s up to you. I bet Charlie would like you.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, Deran, Jesus, my nephew.”

“No shit,” asshole, “why would he like me?”

“Who doesn’t like you? Besides Jess.”

“And your mom.”

“My mom?”

“Your dad.”

“My dad’s a dick. What about my mom? She doesn’t have a problem with you.”

“She looks like she has a problem with me.”

“That’s just how she looks,” shifting again to prop his chin on Deran’s chest, “like she smells something foul all the time.”

His face tilts, one arm tucked behind his head, “where’d you come from?” barely above a whisper.

Adrian snorts a quiet laugh, watching as his bare skin ripples under his breath, “maybe I’m adopted.”

Christmas is kind of a ways off, it makes Adrian’s chest hurt knowing that Deran is planning that far in advance. Planning. He’s planning a future. Together. And Adrian is lying. Throwing surf comps to get the DEA off his back, not bothering to let Deran in on any of this. Not bothering to warn him, or tell him he wants out, he wants to just drop the surf, drop the act, shit. Guilt rises every single time they get a quiet moment, every single time he gets Deran to peek out of his shell, Adrian’s guilt rises and threatens to ruin it all. 

“You ever snowboard before?” he can distract. He can distract himself from all the heavy shit that keeps landing squarely on his windpipe every time Deran gets serious. 

Shrug, “Craig took me up there once when I was fifteen. It’s easy. Surfing on snow.”

Of course that’s how Deran would see it. Mr Natural Athlete and all, Adrian feels himself smiling, “aside from the whole feet-strapped-to-a-board thing. Let me guess - Craig took you up the lift, and shoved you down the hill?”

“Pretty much.”

“Triple black diamonds?”

“Na, it was like a single black diamond,” he’s smirking now. 

Distraction is good. Adrian’s fingers are trailing down his stomach, distraction is good. Distraction is easy. When his fingers get to his bellybutton, they’re grabbed. Tangled together, landing on Deran’s shoulder.

Deep breath, adjusting to lean up on his elbows, he can’t box Deran in, he can’t make him feel like he’s caged in any way, like he’s lost any kind of control, but he can linger over his face, “yeah. Let’s do it,” and he can kiss him. And hopefully the kissing can assuage any doubts he had about talking earlier. Kind of talking. And any doubts he has that his manhood is in question. Calm the fear that he’ll never speak but Adrian knows is right beneath the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hey honey, you think that I'm a fool to be  
> So deep in it now that I can't see  
> I just wait for you to call my name  
> Ain't it always been the same?  
> We just keep passing on the wrong time  
> Yeah maybe, maybe we'll go to the other side of town  
> Remember that old house, baby we ran down  
> The nights on the floor were so perfect then  
> Remember when the sun was coming up that red  
> And the fire in our bed  
> Yeah baby, we could set the whole thing on fire  
> I was the king of standing alone  
> Looking back to see how far you've flown  
> I ain't grown and I ain't changed at all  
> Looking down to see how far you've fallen"  
> ~Still Out There Running~Songwriters: RATELIFF NATHANIEL DAVID
> 
> I finally found a song that makes me think of these two :)
> 
> So I can't fully figure out canon timelines and I don't really think we're supposed to since they can only film certain months of the year and there's only thirteen episodes a season and all, they can't even pretend to be following them in any kind of real time lapses. But have certain markers to show the time passing. My assumption is that S4 takes place at what would be J's winter semester of his first year of college. The only professional surf timelines I could find are comps running from April to Dec. So let's pretend that Adrian has some time off between seasons 3 and 4, and let's pretend that they get to spend a Christmas together... and since there was a snowboard propped in the corner of their bedroom... fuck it. Let's do it. I like intimacy and I like learning how couples go from early stages of playful and lust-filled adventures to a level of comfort with one another that we saw Deran and Adrian had achieved by the start of S4.


	11. Ghosting Against The Salt Of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Further mention of past child sexual abuse

Ghosting Against The Salt Of Tears

The ocean sounds wild outside the window. The surf should be great this time of morning. They should be getting out of bed, normally they’d both be in the water by now. Deran watches his hand rise, slide through Adrian’s hair. He fell asleep there and hasn’t moved since.  
Puddle of drool on Deran’s chest, his breath coming out in steady puffs, his belly moving gently with every exhale. Left hand under Deran’s shoulder, right one wrapped around his arm. One leg strewn over Deran’s thigh, knee bent and digging into his left quad. Vastus medialis. That’s the one. Tore that one on his board back in the day. 

He forgets how heavy Adrian is until he’s like this. Half human blanket. Trapping sweat between them and he wonders if they might just spontaneously combust if they lie here much longer. This isn’t typical. Not exactly. Waking up like this. Or really, sleeping like this at all.   
He must have been exhausted to still be this lost in dreams. Deran watches his hand slide through his auburn, maybe, hair. Is that what auburn is? Could be. He’s got a lot of freckles for someone who isn’t part ginger. And Deran knows were every single freckle on his right shoulder is. He’s been counting them for nearly an hour now. Every time he gets to somewhere in the fifties, Adrian shifts just enough that he loses his spot and has to start over. Until just now. Drawing pencil lines in his mind from one freckle to the next. What was the game called? The one where you draw squares on a sheet of dots? What was the point of that game even? Pope kicked his ass once for cheating at tic-tac-toe, but how is it even possible to cheat at that game? Deran still can’t figure out why he thought he was cheating. 

Before he can tell himself not to, his face is buried in Adrian’s hair. Moving back and forth slowly. The softness of it against his lips, his nose. He sometimes wonders if he should shave just so he can feel that on his cheeks. 

“Mmm,” Adrian’s face turns, just enough to press lips against Deran’s chest, “I slept like a rock.”

“A drooling one.”

Breathing out a quiet laugh that rises a chill up Deran’s chest, his fingers start with that pattern drawing on his arm, “we miss the morning waves?”

“Still sounds pretty good out there.”

His body unfurls into a long stretch, curls back into Deran’s with a sigh, “you’ve been awake?”

“No, just…”

“Sound like you’ve been awake.”

“Just…”

“Watching me sleep.”

“No, I…”

“It’s fine Deran,” his head lifts, face angling to land his chin on Deran’s sternum. His eyes, they are so dark blue and so easy to fall into. His fingers are still tracing invisible lines on Deran’s flesh, lines that he wonders if one day will become visible, “it’s fine. Doesn’t bother me in the least.”

“Clearly,” his thumb smudges some of the saliva from the corner of his mouth. Rising a smile on the lips that turn to press against his skin again. 

It’d be easy, too easy to tell him, to say something stupid like, ‘I love you’, knowing if he says those words it would mean a certain end to all of it. Codys aren’t allowed to have things they love. Things they love will get taken away. 

“Do I have to move yet?”

“No,” trying to make it sound easy. Sound like it’s his decision either way, try to make it sound like he doesn’t want him to stay. To stay there all day. All damn week. Hell, all his life. 

His fingers slip through the softness of his hair again. Deran doesn’t know what to think about yesterday. He’s not even really sure what made him think he needed to bottom. It’s not like Adrian cares. And he’s the only person who should care. He’s the only person who matters. It just sometimes feels like he can erase it all by replacing it. Override all the things that won’t go away by covering it with Adrian instead. That guy didn’t, he was just, that was, Deran hears his breath shudder and he knows if he can’t even put a word on it in his head then he’ll never put a verbal label on it either. He’ll never be able to.

His face is like a magnet, locked in against the top of Adrian’s head. He’s certain Adrian can feel it, all that weird shit that his heart is doing desperately beneath his ear. Like it’s trying to get out in any direction it can. Maybe the words are somewhere in his heart, written in red, pumped blood splattered in every chamber. Maybe that’s why it’s trying so hard to crack through his ribs and make itself known, seen, and felt. 

“Take a breath,” he barely hears it over the rushing in his ears that he didn’t realize was happening until he heard Adrian’s voice struggling to find a way through that current, his face suddenly appears right in front of Deran’s, “hey,” he’s too quiet, his voice is too quiet, and now every single part of him that is touching Deran is making his skin twist. He wants to shove him off, so abruptly, but his body won’t move. Adrian’s lips are moving but the noise is no longer being made. Or if it is, it’s not winning the battle with the blood rushing in Deran’s ears. He needs to move. He needs to get up. He needs to find somewhere to hide. He needs to, “breathe,” but it’s not helping. Deran could hold his breath all morning if he wanted to. Of he’ll at least try but, Adrian’s lips are on his. Desperate. Diving into his mouth, prying his lips open and crushing. It’s like he’s sucking the breath out of Deran’s lungs. As soon as his lips are pried open, Adrian draws back and it shakes something loose inside Deran’s mind. 

Reminding him how to breathe and words, there are suddenly words between gasps, words he never thought he’d say, words he only a moment ago thought he’d never find in his own mind, much less on the tip of his tongue, “he just touched me. He didn’t, there wasn’t any, he just touched me,” or some words. Part of the words. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, lingering on his neck, a breath that makes it’s way past his throat happens and a weird sound chokes off behind it. He pissed the bed. For about a year afterward. 

Adrian’s eyes are blurry. His face is blurry. His mouth is warm, and now it’s against Deran’s neck, like he’s trying to feel his pulse with his lips.

It was no different. Not really. No different than her. But it wasn’t her. So it was different. Deran heard Craig talking, that year to Renn. He followed him down to the beach. He was supposed to be sleeping, but he could hear Craig when he’d climb out his window. So he’d follow, “Craig was bringing blankets and food to Renn. I followed him. She was sleeping on the beach. I heard them talking one of the nights. About her step dad or something. He did stuff to her. I guess, I just, I didn’t know that it wasn’t right. It wasn’t normal for,” his voice trails off again. He can feel Adrian’s hands tucked under his shoulder now, like he’s trying to hold him as close as possible. Or maybe he’s trying to hold him together. Trying to keep the water from spilling out of the broken vase and onto the floor, “I thought it was normal.”

Water is coming from somewhere. He can feel it on his cheeks. And on his neck. 

His chest is moving faster than it should be. He can see it moving Adrian’s body up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Really fast. He can feel Adrian’s head turning, his lips landing on the stream of water against his neck. Staying there. 

‘It’ll be okay baby’, hissing in his ears over the receding rush of blood, ‘my beautiful baby boy’, twisting around his thigh, ‘it’s okay baby’, slithering down his spine, wrapping itself around his neck and ghosting against the salt of tears that Adrian left there, kissed into his skin.

“I’m here,” whispers it’s way into all the chaos, “I’m right here Deran. I’m not going anywhere,” Adrian’s thumb rubs along his jaw but he doesn’t move his head, he doesn’t remove the leg that’s still strewn over Deran’s, and his hands are still pressed tightly into his shoulders-blades. All this time Deran’s been wondering, ever since Belize, he’s been wondering if he could become liquid and seep into Adrian’s pores, live under his skin, and hide inside him. But now he finds himself wondering if Adrian is trying to live under Deran’s skin instead. Flesh is weak. But this bond, it’s something Deran’s not sure he can live without.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship strength test: surviving a dark secret from one's past. I think Adrian is doing okay being the strong one right now that Deran needs.
> 
> I like testing relationships by throwing some vulnerability into the mix and seeing how they both react. Especially when it comes to guys like Deran - we've seen him being incredibly tough and brave, but we've also seen him allowing love to make it's way through all the walls he's built up around himself. And I think with Deran who does a good job of stifling a lot of the emotions we know he's feeling underneath his chill facade, now that he's letting Adrian further in and giving way to some of the things he's always felt about Adrian but never admitted before, the whole flood of other things he's stifled are going to start coming too.


	12. I'm Right Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig with his terrible timing...

I’m Right Here

Deran’s heart is a wild thing to listen to. It’s nearing a normal rhythm under Adrian’s palm when he opens his mouth, when the words are right there, when the reminder will be spoken this time instead of shown, “I lo…”

Interrupted by the door squealing open and Deran’s hand immediately darting towards his side table for his gun. 

“Yo, the waves are sick right now,” Craig announces from where he’s let himself in.

Adrian hasn’t shifted yet, half-pinning Deran beneath him though Deran’s gone into full tautness and is ready for the fight. Receding a bit at the sound of his brother’s voice but not fully giving way again to the relaxation that had been drowning the world out around them. It’s delicate, isn’t it? Calm is delicate. Delicate never lasts. 

Deran’s hand leaves the side table without his gun, it lands on his face, rubs at his eyes, “you ever going to learn how to knock?”

“Na, probably not,” at least he’s honest. And now he’s standing in the doorway, “you sick or somethin’?”

“No,” it’s quick and defensive, “why?”

“Just wondering. Not much can make either of you miss this kind of riding,” he shrugs, leaning against the frame and crossing his arms loosely over his chest. Sometimes Adrian’s not really sure how any part of them is related to one another. Different ends of the Cody spectrum he supposes. 

He’s wondering how long Craig can stand there and Adrian can stay here, before Deran gets squirmy enough to slither out from beneath him under Craig’s non-judgmental gaze. The squirmy is already happening. A hand sliding under this nose, the one that was on Adrian’s arm getting misted with immediate sweat before it lands on the sheets, probably making sure they’re both covered. Craig’s the last person on this Earth that would care about nudity. Hell, if he walked in on them fucking he’d probably just shrug and walk out to wait on the couch. Not think a thing of it. Craig’s probably fucked guys before, or at least thought about it. Anything that moves and is willing is Craig’s type. The right combination of drugs and Adrian’s certain that he’d forget about any kind of gender preference. 

Deran was Deranphobic for most of his life. He hated everything about himself and being gay was only a part of that. It was never any hatred of anyone else who was gay, it was just himself. Holding himself to a different standard or fearing his own differences while living under Smurf’s roof. Jesus, the guy hates his own body half the time and his body is a large part of the equation of his sexuality. 

“Some construction starting on a luxury hotel on Mission,” Craig is talking but all Adrian is listening to is the sound of Deran’s heart sloshing beneath his ear. He hasn’t bolted yet. His heart is having a hard time deciding where safe ground is. Somewhere between panic and 'at home in bed with my boyfriend’ seems to be the argument it’s having with itself. That hand that keeps fiddling with the sheet lands on Adrian’s shoulder momentarily before it flits away again, scratches at his beard. He says something to Craig, it rumbles in his chest. Adrian might as well be counting the seconds he’s been lying here without running away. This is certainly some kind of record for affection in front of anyone. It’s not something Adrian needs or even wants, he doesn’t want Deran making some public confession or displays, but here in their own home he should feel comfortable being however he wants to be no matter who walks in that door. Uninvited. At least when Craig shows up uninvited it doesn’t feel like a threat. 

“Alright, I’ll start some coffee,” Deran’s lips land quickly in Adrian’s hair and his weight starts shifting, “you could, turn around or something,” he sighs towards his brother.

“Dude, I changed your diapers, like I give a shit,” but he does what he’s asked. Turns around and heads to the kitchen, “I’m pretty sure I was the one who told you how to jerk off without ripping the skin off your dick too. Saved you from having to have that chat with Smurf anyway.”

Adrian only rolls far enough to watch Deran rooting around on the floor for his underwear. Lean, tight, and fucking gorgeous. He sometimes wonders if Deran eats enough anymore. He’s always on the go. Between forty-plus hours a week at the bar, whatever amount of time they spend doing jobs, and surfing; when he leans forward again to step into his underwear Adrian can see every rib and he wonders if he takes care of himself at all when Adrian’s gone, “I need breakfast before we surf,” if he makes it about himself then Deran will be more receptive to it. 

“K,” his cotton/poly blend clad ass lands on the edge of the mattress again and Adrian watches his hand reach out, finger tracing a rib that’s still visible. His skin goosebumps at the contact and if Adrian isn’t seeing things, then he leans into the touch. For just a moment though. Only a breath of neediness before he’s to his feet, pulling on some dirty pants and leaving the bedroom, “can’t just stand around in your own place and take up space?” 

“What am I s’posed to do?”

“Coffee maybe.”

“Then I’d probably do it wrong and you’d be riding my ass about it being too weak or something.”

“Put your giant ass on the couch then, take up space out there.”

“You sure you’re not sick bro?”

“I’m not sick,” it’s a snappy grumble that makes most everyone in Deran’s life shut the hell up.

But not Craig, “‘cause you look weird. Like that time you had that fever. That bad one. You were, like, seven. Remember?”

“Does anyone remember being seven?”

“Yeah. You started talking when I saw seven. You haven’t shut up since.”

Is Deran getting sick? Adrian didn’t notice temperature fluctuations. Maybe he just looks weird from all the effort spent on communicating this morning and last night. His hand flattens, smooths over the sheet that Deran just got off of, it’s damp. But Deran’s kind of a sweaty sleeper, so that’s not new. Sighing when he gets himself to seated on the edge of the bed, Deran’s side where his feet hit the floor are a pair of wadded up socks. He kicks them towards the hamper. Only half-listening to the back-and-forth in the other room. 

Panic glazed eyes, that’s probably what Craig is seeing and not having a name for. Fever eyes don’t look much different on Deran. 

—————

“You good with surfing?” he’s really only wondering because lord knows what kind of prep he did for himself before sitting on Adrian’s dick last night.

“Yes, Jesus, I’m not sick.”

“Okay, just,” his hand reaches out, lands on Deran’s arm where he’s trying to walk past him dismissively, “think I’m allowed to worry about you.”

His eyes lock onto Adrian’s, “I’m fine,” then his lips gruffly meet Adrian's forehead.

He’s lying. But he doesn’t feel warm. So it’s not about that. 

Craig’s not convinced either, bobbing beside Adrian watching Deran ride a decent wave, his form is off, “what is with him? He was weird yesterday too.”

Adrian shrugs, he’s not about to get into any of it with Craig. Even if Craig has more insights into Deran’s childhood than possibly even Deran does. Hearing about child abuse in Craig’s narrative? That sounds awful. Deran’s bad enough. Craig would probably just shrug it all off like it didn’t matter, go nose deep in an eight ball, and find some pussy. That’s how Craig solves problems, “if he is sick, what am I s’posed to do with him?”

“What do you mean?” half-squinting at the sun, “call Smurf.”

“Hell no.”

He shrugs, “then let him burn himself out.”

“He turn into a big baby when he’s sick?”

“Man-cold? Na, he acts like he does when he’s physically fucked up. Like it doesn’t bother him. Then he eventually just fades,” he shrugs again, “I’m gonna catch this one.”

—————

“Want me to come with you?”

“To the bar?”

“Yeah. I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Why would you want to?”

“You don’t want me to?” taking a chance to step into the shower next to him, reaching for the shampoo when he hands it over.

“No, I just thought you might have shit to do. If you’re only home for another week.”

“Plus a couple days,” his eyes dart over and linger on Adrian’s chest, won’t meet his eyes, “I want to spend them with you. And if you want a hand over there, I can use a mop. Or cut lime wedges.”

He shrugs, “if it’s what you want,” blues finally rising, locking on.

“Yes. I want to,” leaning forward to kiss his nose, getting the crinkle he’s expecting as a response. So he does it again. Mostly just to see that crinkle. 

And hear the grumbled, “okay knock it off,” before he dips into Adrian’s lips. 

—————

“You get anything to eat yet?” he wonders when Deran makes his way to his office, “getting late.”

“No. Why? You hungry?” he forgets to act chill and uninterested for a minute while he scans Adrian for any discomfort before he plops down on the couch next to him with a heavy sigh. Uh oh, he’s showing weakness. He’ll have to act tough to make up for it later.

Adrian’s hand lands on his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze, watching his head turn and his eyes are definitely not right. Craig’s right, the asshole is getting sick. Adrian’s hand slides up and down his thigh, “what time you heading home?”

“You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll probably close. Only have one bartender.”

Weeknights are usually not very busy. Deran likes to have two closers every night of the week. Unless it’s him, then he doesn’t mind being alone. 

It’s empty by midnight, he sends Kai home and closes it himself. He looks like a zombie. And doesn’t notice when Adrian starts cleaning. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop him like usual. He’s quiet, the eery kind of quiet, like the gears in his head are overheating but his jaw is a rusty hinge that won’t open. 

—————

He practically crawls to the bed when they get home, and collapses with his clothes still on, face down. Not a word. Adrian supposes this must be the burning out part that Craig was talking about. He sighs when he takes a seat beside his partner’s hip, “let’s at least get your clothes off.”

A muffled grunt into the pillow and zero help. How the hell Pope made this look so easy the other night, Adrian has no idea. Deran is pretty damn thin and narrow but dead weight is dead weight no matter how small the guy is, not small. He’s not small. Wiry. And all those wires are lax right now. 

“Okay,” yanking the pants off at his ankles, “I’m not doing anything with your shirt.”

Nothing. Leaning forward to press a tender kiss against the back of his head. Now he can feel some heat. What’s the thing about stress leading to getting sick? Is it possible that all the swirling debris in his head the last few days led to this physical reaction? He should google some shit. Watching his hand slide through his boyfriend’s hair. If he feels shitty enough to be lying face down without any regard to what’s happening around him or who’s touching his body, he must feel pretty shitty, “alright, get some sleep,” shifting off the bed.

Emptying Deran’s pockets of the dirty pants that he’s certain he’s been wearing for about four days now. Keys, lighter, phone. Bar phone. All the times Smurf has made them change their personal numbers to keep them safe or hidden or unreachable, Adrian is never quite sure which. Changing their numbers to keep them to herself. Away from their friends, their significant others, their jobs, the outside world. Keeping them safe. Fuck her. 

The bar phone, though, that’s one she isn’t allowed to have. Deran is a businessman. A real one, he needs to have a reliable number to run his business. And Adrian should probably get a hold of one of his employees and make sure the place is covered tomorrow. 

—————

He’s still face down when Adrian slides in beside him. Watching him until his eyes get heavy and sleep takes over. Startling awake what seems like every five minutes for the rest of the night, every time Deran moves. Tearing off his clothes and kicking the blankets to the floor one minute, huddled against Adrian’s side and trying like hell to climb into his skin the next minute. Murmuring random things that make no sense, or maybe are too terrifying to translate. Adrian’s never sure about Deran’s sleep murmurs, he’s not certain he should listen and he’s never certain he wants to hear it. Like it’s always a private conversation Deran is having with himself. And maybe that’s just another reason he doesn’t sleep much. Some sort of survival mechanism, afraid of the secrets he might tell when he’s sleeping. 

By the time morning sun is starting to creep across the bed, he’s calm. Almost peaceful. The heat is radiating off him, but not so much to make Adrian think he needs to drag him to the walk-in. Does Deran even have a doctor? Probably not. Not that he could do much, except maybe run the symptoms by a nurse and make sure it’s not the flu or something. Either way, not much to do but sweat it out. Attempt to keep him hydrated. 

He watches his own hand reach out, land on Deran’s forehead. He moans at the contact but his eyes don’t respond under the lids. 

Thermometer. Do they have one? Probably not. 

Shit. 

—————

Double shit when he looks at his phone and sees a text reminder from Jess that he agreed to watch Charlie this evening. Damn it. There’s no way in hell he’s going to involve Smurf in any of this. He doesn’t need help taking care of Deran, especially not from her. He’s got the bar covered, he’ll have to convince Jess to drop Charlie off here on her way to dinner. And maybe a thermometer. 

Deran’s shivering again and he probably shouldn’t wait that long to take his damn temperature. What’s going to happen if he leaves? Just long enough to run to the store? It’s not like he’ll die. 

Tucking the blankets up tight around his narrow body, his phone is to his ear before he can even process who he’s calling, a gruff, “what?” answers on the first ring.

“Uh,” shit, “Pope?”

“You called me.”

“Yeah, no, I mean, I know. I just, um,” his eyes pinch shut, hand rises to rub into them for a moment, “Deran is sick. Craig said yesterday to just…”

“Craig’s an idiot. How sick?”

“Fever. But I don’t have a thermometer so I don’t know how bad.”

“You don’t have a thermometer,” it’s not a question. The accusation is just Pope. Adrian doesn’t spend much time around him, definitely not alone, and he’s certainly never called him before, he’s not even sure why he did just now. But he does know that Pope would do anything for his brothers. Without questioning it.

“Yeah. And, um…”

“I’ll be over there in a half hour.”

—————

Twenty-seven minutes actually before he’s walking in the door without knocking. Even when Adrian knows he’s coming, he’s still a startling entity, “where is he?”

Jesus, he understands why Deran has no small-talk capabilities. Cocking his head towards their bedroom even though Pope is already through the door. 

He’s made his way to the middle of the bed, Adrian’s pillow tucked under his arms, his face hidden in it, the sheets are tangled around him, bare back glistening with sweat. Pope doesn’t waste any time dragging the sheets down and eyeballing his body.

“What are you looking for?”

“Rash,” rolling him to his other side, this time Deran’s eyes flicker open, he winces and they shut again, “he have any open wounds?”

“No.”

“Vomiting or heavy breathing?”

“No.”

“Probably viral,” his halting speech is something Adrian will probably never get used to. It’s like he thinks everyone around him is stupid, or like he needs to slow it all down to process it for himself. Deran has never said anything about what Pope’s actual diagnosis is, Adrian remembers a few times Deran ducking out of whatever weekend plans to go visit him in the psych ward when they were kids. So he must have one. 

Deran’s hand rises, swats at Pope’s when he pokes his ear with a thermometer, “hold still asshole. Unless you want to do this the hard way.”

Deran gives in, “102.3,” Pope reads off when it beeps, “take it every hour. If it gets above 103 drag him in,” he’s already in the bathroom, wetting a hand towel. Returning to drape it over Deran’s neck and shoulders, tugging the top quilt off. He folds it, flattens it, smooths it and leaves it on the chair by the window, “don’t let him burrow. Keep the towel cool,” he clicks on the fan, “cool water, no ice. Make him drink it.”

Adrian wants to ask him how. He’s never been good at forcing anyone to do anything, especially Deran. Pope’s looking at his little brother with something like caring, or concern before he realizes Adrian is watching and then it turns into some kind of sneer like he thinks Deran is still just the weak runt of the liter, Adrian knows it’s a bluff. 

He starts towards the door, turns on his heel, grabs the quilt and brings it out the sliding door, draping it over the railing before he disappears down the stairs. Adrian waits to hear his truck start before he sits down next to Deran, “you need anything?” having to keep himself from touching him. Everyone remembers all too well how much a body can ache with a fever that high. Instead he leans his chin on the pillow beside Deran’s face, whispering, “I’m right here if you need anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Adrian and Pope existing in each other's orbits isn't enough, it's clear during S4 that Pope realizes how important Adrian is to Deran and sure, Adrian thought Pope was going to kill him when he came in while Adrian was packing... but I kind of like the idea of them interacting. As strained and awkward as it would be. And I also feel like Pope is the one with the most random human body and physical ailments knowledge so he'd be the logical one to call when someone's sick. 
> 
> Just going to plow right into another relationship test with having to weather a viral storm together. Hang in there Adrian...


	13. Don't Leave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deran's fever dreams.

Don’t Leave Me

He’s sitting on the bottom of the pool. Pressure on his ears but not enough to be deeper than eight feet. There’s no current. There’s no waves. His head tilts back, eyes open to the blur of the clear water and the sun glinting off every particle between him and her. She’s standing on the edge, hands on her hips. Her hair so blonde it’s white. Her clothes skin-tight and her face made-up. She has a handbag tucked under her arm and he knows there’s a gun in it. He might only be seven years old, but there are some things about his mom that he knows. And he knows they aren’t the same as his classmates’ moms.

“You’re up baby bro,” it’s Craig, he’s in his ear, “don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Baz.

“Mama’s baby boy,” Pope.

“Don’t fuck it up bro,” hand on his shoulder, gun being passed to his sweaty grip.

“Only shoot if you have to,” Pope whispering against his hair.

Baz laughs.

“Beautiful baby boy,” is all she has to offer. Her high-heeled shoe pressing down on his face when he surfaces. Just long enough for a breath, one breath before he’s back under. Pope holding his right arm, Baz holding his left. It’s heavy. The water is getting deeper. The pressure is deafening. His eyes are unfocused. 

It’s too heavy. On his chest. It’s too heavy. The weight on the edge of his bed. It’s too heavy. It’s too dark. It’s too heavy. It’s too much. His mouth opens to scream maybe. The water rushes in. The water rushes in and he’s on the floor next to his bed. Knees drawn to his chest. Craig is in the doorway, “you sick man?” 

Pope is leaning over him, “you look sick baby boy.”

Baz is smiling, he can see his teeth bright in the darkness, “we’re all sick. That doesn’t make you special. Or different than us.”

The window shatters. The water rushes in. He’s being pulled under. He holds his breath. And waits. It’ll calm. The grip will lessen. He can hold his breath. He can outlast it. Her hands are in his hair. Her voice is in his ear, “it’s okay baby. Everyone makes mistakes,” her grip is tightening, pulling his head back, “I’m all ears baby boy,” her face is hovering over his like a threat and Pope is behind her, “what?! What? I’m listening baby boy,” her breath is on his face and her weight is on the edge of his bed. Her fingers are stroking through his hair, gently now. Down his back. Tracing his spine. Crawling across his flesh. She’s singing. And, “it’s okay baby boy,” they’re alone. He’s alone. Even though she’s right there,” what’s the matter baby?”

His lungs are bursting, his pulse is pounding, his head is throbbing. He surfaces, his lungs fill with air, salty and heavy with an oncoming storm. He can see it over the ocean. His feet are on the sand. There are hands at his ankles, tugging, tugging him back under, sweeping him away from shore where he can see Adrian standing. Standing with his hands in his pockets, the breeze lifting the hem of his shirt, fluttering away from his body. He’s wearing a smile and a man is beside him. His head turns, the smile grows and the man isn’t Deran. 

It’s not you he’s smiling at.

“Adrian,” his voice is weak, “don’t go,” it’s gravelly. When his mouth opens water rushes in. 

Glass shatters in his ears and her voice wraps around his neck, “six-hundred and a bag of smack,” all you’ll ever be worth. To anyone. He’ll never love you. Your own mother can’t even love you. Your own father can’t even love you. Your brothers? Do they love you or do they only need you? Her fingers are ghosting his thighs and her lips are against his hair, “it’ll be okay baby.”

“Adrian,” it’s louder now. Maybe. It sounds so far away. The wave is coming, he can hear it, he can feel it in the dip in the water, right before the next swell rushes in, he knows it’s coming. He knows it. He watches Adrian on shore, his eyes lingering on Deran’s as his face tilts and the man kisses him. Strokes his jaw, leans into his shoulder, “don’t leave me,” it’s barely a whisper as the wave arches, crashes, and pulls him under with her fingers wrapped around his ankles, “don’t leave me,” it’s garbled, his mouth and lungs filling with water, the image of another man kissing Adrian burning it’s way into his eyes and snaking through every lobe of his brain. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” the weight on the edge of the bed. It’s familiar. The hand in his hair, it withdraws, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

—————

The room is too bright. The sound of voices too loud. Adrian. His voice. It washes over him gently, like smooth rolling wave and he sits. His head spins, a damp cloth falls off his back, his body is heavy and weak. There’s water on the table. He needs it. He needs all of it. 

“Slow down,” it’s soothing, the water glass is being pulled away from his mouth, “take it easy.”

He hears something come out of his mouth but he can’t identify it.

“I know. Just lay back down, it’s fine. Everything is fine,” the hand is familiar, caressing his cheek in a gentler manner than any other human being has ever offered, “your fever is dropping a little,” the sheets are being tucked around him and he’s too tired to kick them off, “bar’s covered, just rest. I’ll be back in a minute.”

His mouth opens, snaps shut, opens again, “don’t go.”

“I’m not. I’m just cooling the towel again, I’m right here,” but his voice is going away. Getting smaller and mingling with the rushing of water in his ears.

—————

There’s a kid. The sound of a kid. 

“Why?”

“Because we’re playing the quiet game while we’re inside.”

“Why?” 

“It’s nice to be quiet when someone doesn’t feel good.”

“Why?”

“When you’re sleeping, you like it quiet?”

“Yes. Mommy puts my fan on. Why is Uncle Deran sleeping through dinner?”

Lena?

“He doesn’t feel well.”

“Why?”

“Charlie, just,” a sigh, “eat your dinner. Then we’ll go back out and build a sandcastle.”

Charlie? Here? How’d Adrian convince Jess to bring him here? Deran must not be here. He must be out. He must be at the bar. Working. Pulling a job. How did the last job go? Did he die? Is that what this is? Was the man on the beach Adrian’s? Was that real life? But Uncle Deran. Since when? He’s maybe seen the kid once. 

“Hey,” his voice is calm, he’s nearby, his weight is on the bed, his hand is on Deran’s forehead. 

Blinking, but he won’t come into focus, “am I dead?”

Soft chuckle, “nope. Let me take your temperature one more time.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes still won’t focus, blinking hurts, it all hurts. Except where Adrian’s hand is lying on his arm. His own hand weighs about a million pounds, managing to raise it, by the time it falls again Adrian is back to his feet.

“Better, I’ll refill your water, need anything else?”

“You.”

Eyes closed again, even without sight he knows Adrian is smiling, “Charlie’s here for another hour or so, but we’re right out on the porch.”

You. I need you. You’re the only thing that’s ever kept my head above water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can do your own baby-talk voice for Charlie, I really can't stand trying to type out baby voices. So I also realize he was just born about midway through S3 but by the time we see a glimpse of him in S4 he looks pretty damn close to 2. So we'll just pretend he's old enough to talk relatively clearly anyway.


	14. The Kid Under The Pier

The Kid Under The Pier

“So tired. You carry me,” his arms are up, sand plastered to his hands. His big eyes are squinted into the sunset.

“Alright,” Adrian squats down in front of him, “climb on,” they ended up further down the beach than intended. Chasing gulls and hunting for shells. Adrian wishes Jess would let him come over more often, the kid loves the beach. He nearly volunteered to play daycare provider while he’s home, but there are already too many irons in the fire. He might as well have been pulling teeth getting her to drop him off here. He promised he disinfected the entire house and he wouldn’t let Charlie anywhere near Deran, that he was passed out and he’d not even come in contact with him the whole time he was here. 

It’s not exactly like Adrian painted Deran in the best light when he came crawling back to Jess’s house after he was released from the hospital, not wanting to be alone, not wanting to stay another night only to add the medical bills. Tables were turned and Adrian was taking care of Jess after a boyfriend beat her up? No way in hell he’d be nearly as understanding as she has been. Honestly, if any man ever laid a hand on Jess, that man would be six feet under. Probably curtesy of a Cody brother. 

“Horsey trot!”

Maybe the kid would be a good training partner. His quads are burning by the time he’s run all the way back down the beach to their place. His ears are ringing with the laughter of his nephew by the time he swings him over his shoulder and does baby Simba lifts with him on the way up the stairs. 

“Again! Again!” he’s kicking his legs and squealing with laughter at the top step before Adrian sets him down and pretends to pass out on the porch, “Horsey dead!”

“Yeah, horsey dead,” he agrees, reaching out and tickling the kid’s neck. It isn’t until the laughter and squealing becomes a din and the kicking and rolling becomes blur that his eyes scan over the porch boards and find Deran’s bare feet. Shit, “Deran, what are you doing out here?” 

Adrian gets to his feet, maybe a little too quickly, scooping Charlie into his arms. Not for protection, he knows Deran is weird about kids, but he’d never hurt one. He just, maybe he’s afraid kids can see things that grown-ups don’t. Like maybe they can see through all that Cody armor. 

He’s sitting in the chair, sweat pants, t-shirt. The quilt that Pope left out here to air out is half draped around his shoulders. His glossy eyes are stalled out on Charlie’s face. Scanning him thoughtfully. Gaze shifting to Adrian’s face, expression unchanging. 

“You feelin’ better?”

His shrug looks painful, not that he’ll voice it. Any of it. The admission he made, the desperate bottoming, then getting sick on top of it; it all adds up to a Deran that will be desperate to prove his manliness as soon as he can get out of bed without reeling. Deran Cody isn’t allowed to be needy. And he’s certainly not allowed to look at Adrian the way he’s looking at him right now.

It’s intense enough that he feels heat rising in his cheeks, shifting his weight, wanting to dip in and press lips to lips. The child on his hip and Deran’s sickness barring that from happening. Unless he keeps looking at him like that. A smile is rising on Adrian’s lips, hefting his nephew to his other hip. Kid is like a monkey, wrapped around him tight. Tight enough that it’d be okay to lean. It’d be just fine to take those steps over, to dip in, and meet his lips. They’re dry and cracked. He smells sick, but Adrian doesn’t give a shit. Leaving his lips, leaning forehead to forehead. He can feel Charlie’s hand leave his shoulder and out of the corner of his eye he sees the tiny thing land in Deran’s hair. Deran doesn’t twist on contact. Doesn’t flinch. Barely notices. 

There is a child touching Deran’s hair and he’s not slithering his way out of it. If Adrian only has one memory that he can keep clearly inside his head for the rest of his life, this is the one. This is the one he wants to keep. 

By the time Jess is glaring at him for letting Charlie come near Deran, it’s already dark out. Deran is already asleep again. And so is Charlie. Chubby cheek smashed against Adrian’s shoulder, his light baby breath on his neck. 

Adrian’s finger rises, giving Jess the shush, and grateful as hell that both of them are asleep, a sure way to avoid the tongue-lashing he’d be receiving otherwise. Smiling to himself as he leans into Jess’s car, strapping the sleeping baby in tight. When he turns, she’s right behind him, shutting the door quietly and glaring at him. 

He interrupts before she can start, “I know. The only time he was around him was when they were outside.”

Her eyes narrow, “you…”

“Want a refund on your free childcare?”

“Smartass,” sucking her cheeks into her teeth, shaking her head, “fine. Thank you. I owe you.”

“Na. I’m here.”

“Yeah, for now.”

“For a couple weeks,” kissing her forehead before she gets in the driver’s seat, “see you soon,” he waits until the car is gone from sight, then heads back to the porch. If he lets his boyfriend sleep there any longer he’ll wake with a crick in his neck. He looks so godawful peaceful. He doesn’t stir when Adrian leans forward to kiss his head. He’ll put some fresh sheets on the bed before he hauls him back inside. 

—————

Deran’s eyes landing on Adrian’s skin may as well be a physical poke to his chest. Startled out of his sleep-stupor to Deran, with his chin propped on his fist, his lip tucked into his teeth.

“Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop,” leaning in before Deran can overthink it, taking a kiss, and falling back into his pillow. His arm forces it’s way under Deran’s neck, hand finding the plain of his shoulder-blade, puling him closer, “go back to sleep.”

It’s a useless command. This is probably the longest span of time Deran has ever spent in bed in his adult life. Adrian knows he won’t be there in the morning. Most likely he’ll be at the bar, unable to trust his staff to run the place without issue for a day while he’s gone. 

“Thank you,” a whisper against his flesh that rises lazy goose-bumps under Deran’s mouth.

“Mmm,” all Adrian’s capable of, while sleep is tugging so hard against the tide of Deran’s body heat. 

—————

Sometimes when he wakes here, in this house, in this bed; it’s like a dream. Wondering where he is, if his sixteen year old self made all this up. The smell of the ocean wafting in the window laced with Deran’s cigarette smoke is enough some mornings to bring this all back to reality, and the guilty tug of the secrets between them. Some mornings it’s the sounds of Deran rummaging around in the kitchen. For a guy who cooks breakfast nearly every morning, he still makes an awful lot of noise trying to find just the right pan for the eggs. 

Sometimes, on days like today, the stillness and the nothingness is like a heavy weight on his chest. Wanting to leave Deran a note and take off. Part of him knowing that there’s no fixing this. Even if Livengood is honest and he does get off scot-free after the DEA takes down Jack and his supplier. Oceanside is a small town, everyone knows everyone. Is there any way that someone else could tie Adrian back to Jack as the snitch? Is there any way he can get through all of this without dragging Deran into it? 

Too heavy. It’s too heavy and it’s too still and he can’t smell Deran or hear Deran and this house might as well be made of drafty cardboard and cold stones.

He drags himself out of bed, takes himself for a run down the beach. As far as he can go. Lungs burning, legs aching by the time he makes it back home. Home. Home? God, will it ever be a home unless Deran is in it? Will it ever be their home, will Adrian ever feel like he’s an equal in any of this? 

Or will it always come down to Cody money and Cody property? Cody family and Cody business?

Does it always come down to that? 

He sits down in the sand, staring at the porch steps, sweat starting to dry on his skin mingling with the salt in the air. He thinks of when Deran asked him to move in. His nonchalance about it a clear read that he was scared out of his mind to even put the offer on the table. After he made his offer and the two of them were standing in front of the place, after the realtor left and Deran was talking about taking out some walls while Adrian was gone, and about how Adrian would need to pick out the furniture and shit. Adrian wasn’t sure what the fuck they were doing, but Deran seemed so certain. He seemed so fucking certain. All Adrian wanted to do was send that surfboard full of coke out on the next wave and hope it washed up so far down shore it would be Mexico’s problem. Send his problems to Mexico with the right tide and the help of a board. Hell, he should have strapped Smurf to the board too. Taken care of Deran’s problems at the same time.

He remembers walking into the place after Deran had moved their stuff in, and they’d picked out furniture via video chats and online shopping. The dumbest fucking thing that Adrian noticed when he walked in, the first real thing he noticed that made it feel like home and the one that made tears sting his eyes, tears he’d never admit to having; was that damn Belize one cent tucked in beside Deran’s lamp. 

He loves Deran more than he ever intended to. And he wonders if it’s always been that way. If it’s always been that way for Deran too.  
Deran tried his damndest to keep Adrian at arm’s length, keep him away from the Cody house when they were kids. They were playmates way back in preschool, but there was always an unspoken rule even back then that the only time it was okay to be together was in school. It wasn’t until middle school that they started surfing and skating together in the evenings. Deran was always allowed to stay out as late as he wanted, Adrian envied it at the time, but realizes now that it was more about Deran not wanting to be at home than it was about what Smurf truly allowed. 

Sometimes weeks would go by without seeing him. He’d sulk through school days and go MIA as soon as the lunch bell rang, he’d be out the door at the end of the day before the bell even rang and there was no sense in trying to chase him down. He was pouty and withdrawn and closed off, but he was quick and shifty. 

Adrian wonders now if the only time he ever truly saw Deran was when they were on the waves. Or sitting on the beach afterwards, sharing a joint when Adrian was supposed to be in afternoon class during the high school years. By then Deran was being homeschooled and Adrian thought it sounded pretty cool to be able to make up his own rules, go to school on his own terms. Back then, before he realized what homeschool for a Cody actually meant. 

He’ll never forget the surf comps. Deran surfing like a pro when he was just a skinny kid who acted cocky to hide his self-doubts. But he was so natural on the board, he was so perfect taking down waves that even a grizzly old pro wouldn’t touch. He was insane. Adrian also remembers skinny cocky Deran dragging a stoned and soiled Craig out the back door of a flophouse once. Some act of fate had given Adrian a ride with the two of them to juniors in Huntington that year. It was only an hour drive, and the events were all weekend. Adrian witnessed Deran doing some gorgeous things on a board, and then seeing just a glimpse of his real life when he was arguing with Craig’s full body weight, jostling him into the back seat of the Scout, not accepting help from Adrian because he insisted that any wounds he inflicted on Craig were well deserved. He also wouldn’t let him help clean the puke off the floor of the backseat when he stopped at a gas station down the coast. Refused to make eye contact when he dropped Adrian back off at home, and muttered a ‘see you around’, without acknowledging any of the weekend’s events. 

He remembers finding Deran once, under the pier. He’d been at a bonfire with his fellow classmates one summer night. They were seventeen. Adrian made out with some guy named Rob who was a good kisser and a bad dick-sucker so he’d been relieved to announce his curfew and leave. Only to see the shadowed, huddled figure that had become so familiar throughout the years. Sitting in the damp sand, knees drawn to his chest, tossing the occasional rock into the waves and staring at the ocean like he was wondering if he’d sprouted gills and fins yet. If he could just dive in and take off, never to be seen again. Adrian had whistled his approach, something he’d gotten used to doing, something they still do sometimes to each other even now. 

That night was different. It was different than anything else they’d ever been for each other until that point. He could feel it circling Deran like the gulls around fishing boats making their way to the docks. All the squawking and flapping and arguing that was constantly around him and within him, but silent outside of him. He’d barely looked when Adrian whistled, just responded in his own breathy whistle and curled further into himself. 

Adrian lit a joint, handed it over, taking note of the freshly crusted blood on Deran’s knuckles when he waved it off. His face tilted just far enough for Adrian to see why he wasn’t talking. Split lip, bruises, fresh cuts. He’s certain now when he looks back at it, that Deran had a broken jaw, but he was too dumb and too young and too drunk and too high to realize it then. He just saw the bruises and the split. He held his breath, leaned against Deran’s face. Knowing he’d either get punched or he’d get him to turn. He listened while his breath shook, felt his body shudder as he robotically turned towards Adrian’s face. Adrian must have been feeling pretty fucking ballsy to seal his lips over Deran’s and exhale a hit into his mouth. Locking lips until Deran inhaled with a pained grunt. Adrian blamed his alcohol and weed induced buzz for the chills that chased themselves up and down his spine when Deran didn’t move. When he lingered there. Against Adrian’s face, and somehow he felt like a total shit for having just made out with Rob, who he promised himself in that moment with Deran’s face against his, that he’d never do that again.

Deran’s head had fallen against Adrian’s shoulder by the time his voice finally exited in a halted, garbled whisper, “I hate,” and trailed off into the crashing of moonlit waves, swallowed by the ocean and maybe that was what Deran intended. Adrian has never figured out how he wanted to finish that sentence. Maybe he just wanted Adrian to know that he was capable of hate. Maybe even capable of hating Adrian.  
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that a drunk Deran was dragging Adrian back under the pier and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe. Groping at his pants and asking him if that was what he wanted, if he wanted someone like Rob who would get drunk at a party with him and suck his dick in the darkness. Adrian didn’t bother to tell him it wasn’t, it was never someone like Rob, and he didn’t bother telling him that Deran was apparently a natural champ at sucking dick, and he definitely didn’t bother telling him that he was it, that Deran was it. He’d always been. 

Adrian got used to the rough way he sucked his dick like he was ashamed of himself for enjoying having a dick in his mouth and he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. Ashamed enough of himself that he never let Adrian return the favor, and he rarely had a hard-on in his pants by the time he was getting off his knees in the sand. It took months of hiding under the pier before Deran finally jerked himself off between Adrian’s knees while his dick was down his throat. It’s no wonder he was rough with Adrian, hell, he looked like he would rather rip his own dick off than stroke it gently. It’s a beautiful dick, the first time Adrian tried to touch it Deran jolted away from him and took off in a rush, tucking it back in his pants and disappearing for days.

Then Baja and ESPN happened. Then jail. 

Belize. 

And Adrian wasn’t surprised that the first time they fucked it was rough and rushed. What did surprise him is how much he enjoyed it. He liked being pushed around and he found out quickly that all he had to do was push first, just a single hand to Deran’s chest and a hard shove would light that spark and he’d be ripping clothes off and going for it, taking everything Adrian had to give. He also learned quick that if he didn’t want it rough, all he had to do was stroke his hand across the inside of Deran’s wrist, up his arm, allowing his fingers to close around his bicep. 

Now it’s just where his fingers land when they’re in bed. Whether it’s after a fuck or not. Adrian’s fingers on Deran’s arm have always seemed to have some kind of calming effect that he’s not found in any other place. 

Deran wasn’t a dog that was half-trained and mostly ignored, left to his own devices to make poor decisions and train himself in bad habits that Adrian had to break him of by showing him a better way. Nope, not that. Deran was a feral animal that Adrian needed to tame, and maybe someday domesticate. They’re getting there. Deran’s getting there. Fuck, at this point Deran is getting there faster than Adrian is. All the fears he’s been hiding and holding inside, he knows they’re harming this precarious relationship. Deran’s honesty and his willingness now to talk a little more, he knows that his own secrets will only harm that, chase that openness away. 

The approach whistle is nearly drowned out by the waves behind him, but he hears it just in time to see Deran descending the stairs. Hands in his pockets, probably in attempt to hide the full-body shakes he’s experiencing after overdoing it while still sick. Stubborn asshole. The only thing that Adrian’s mention of it could possibly accomplish is Deran shutting down. So he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t mention that his color is off and his eyes are glossy. He waits as Deran sits down slowly beside him, is quiet for a long moment, then turns his head to kiss the top of Deran’s when it lands on his shoulder.

“The Drop survive a night without you?”

Even his snort sounds weak. Adrian keeps his face against Deran’s dirty hair, it’s not like Adrian smells the greatest after a distance run on the beach either. 

“You hungry yet?”

Shrug. Adrian’s half-domesticated long-hair breed of formerly-feral Cody is still in need of some communications classes.

“K, well I am,” even if he doesn’t want to move now. With Deran relaxed against his shoulder. The longer he sits here, the more his muscles will lock up and he’ll wish he had never sat down. Knowing when he gets up he’ll have to fight Deran into sitting down and letting Adrian put his own damn bread in the toaster oven. Kissing his head again, groaning when he gets to his feet. By the time he’s turned to give Deran and hand, he’s already up. Bastard. 

His hand lands on Deran’s lower back, pressing with his fingertips to steer him up the stairs first. He grumbles an unintelligible protest but his body probably feels like it’s made of bricks so the physical argument just isn’t there, “you at least trying to rehydrate?”

A snort that clearly conveys the question of, ‘you my mom now?’ without him having to say a word. 

Maybe if Deran ever had a mom, like a real mom who cared about him and actually was pained by his discomfort instead of taking pleasure from it, then sure, Adrian is his mom now. He smiles to himself at the thought of it, wondering what parts of him have always been Deran’s something, or maybe, he thinks when Deran’s head turns and his eyes meet Adrian’s that maybe he’s everything. Deran’s everything.

—————

“So, Charlie?” his voice sounds croaky though he’s insisting his throat is not sore. His nose is not stuffy even if he sounds nasal as hell and he keeps snorting up snot every five seconds, clearing mucus with a low growl and swallowing hard with a pinched expression on his face.

“Yeah, but that won’t become a thing. Ya know? Him being here,” Adrian leans against the counter, taking a sip of hot coffee, watching Deran at the table. Sitting straight-backed and watching his hands. His hands that are not lighting a cig or rolling a joint or popping the top off a beer, or getting shit done around the bar, tearing down walls, breaking into safes, stealing cars. He has no idea what to do with his hands. He’s looking at them like he’s not even certain they belong to him. And then they rise. Tips of is thumbs meet his teeth, “stop,” Adrian sighs, “or I’ll buy that shit they make for babies to make their thumbs taste sour or whatever so they stop sucking them.”

“Yeah? Good luck with that,” a tiny bit of Deran snark sliding through the strange sound of his sick voice, “I don’t care, ya know? If Charlie is here. I mean, if he’s,” it sort of breaks off and Adrian nearly expects him to throw some kind of fake cough into it to pretend he never said anything. He doesn’t have a lit cig to distract.

He almost takes pity on the poor guy, but no such luck for him, “are you saying you don’t mind if there’s a little kid in the house? Are you saying you don’t mind if Jess’s little kid is in our house? Are you saying that you don’t mind my nephew being around? Or are you saying you don’t mind if he calls you Uncle Deran?” that was a good one, he can see some pink rising in Deran’s cheeks, eyes trained on his hands, “are you saying maybe you don’t have a complete aversion to all things child? Are you, in fact, saying that you, Deran Cody, are not allergic to children?”

“Shut up,” he finally interrupts, he’s looking for something to throw at Adrian and he comes up empty, “I’m saying that your nephew is…”

“Not going to send you into anaphylactic shock just by simply existing in your periphery? I won’t need to have EpiPens on hand if he ever…”

“He’s yours,” cutting off Adrian’s teasing with a very final, “your family.”

“Yeah,” sighing, reading between Deran’s lines. The kid is welcome here because he’s Adrian’s family and this is Adrian’s home. The kid doesn’t bother Deran the way other kids do because he’s Adrian’s nephew. 

He’s not going to ask Deran about Lena. He’s probably never going to. He knows they were never close or anything, and the kid is better off somewhere that Smurf can’t get to her. Can’t use her for leverage. 

He’s not going to think about what any of that means for himself. Being a person that a Cody cares about. His eyes linger on Deran’s for awhile, long enough that Deran’s drop, back down to his hands, “you’re burning your toast.”

“Shit,” and now he’s burning his fingers pulling it out of the toaster oven and tossing it on his plate.

“Alright, get the hell out of my kitchen,” Deran’s hand appears, shoving the black toast off the plate into the compost bucket. A compost bucket, just another thing that shocked the shit out of Adrian about Deran when they started living together. This is California, and most people here are fairly environmentally minded for city people, but for Deran? Well, it’s probably something Pope would kick his ass for if he wasn’t composting. 

Stubborn asshole, elbowing Adrian out of the way, sealing the shove-off with a kiss and getting to work on a real breakfast. He might be weak, shaky, dehydrated, and undernourished but he’s not going to let it stop him. Prick.

—————

“You surfing today?” head turning, glossy eyes landing on Adrian as he squints against the sun sparkling on the ocean.

“No,” he was going to, but if he goes then Deran will, “wouldn’t hurt to take a day off.”

His eyes narrow, reading over Adrian’s expression, trying to decide if it’s worth it to accuse him of only taking the day off because of him.

“I ran further this morning then I normally do, so I’m good, so some drills later tonight,” shrugging against the wooden chair at his back. He doesn’t owe Deran his work-out schedule or anything, but he did invest in Adrian, so sure he’s got an interest in how seriously he’s taking it. Adrian also knows it isn’t just about the money. It’s about the dream, the one that Deran gave up on, the one that Smurf took away, “I’m good, besides the report’s showing better conditions tomorrow.”

Half nod, mostly tucked into himself on the chair beside him, he looks a lot like that kid under the pier.

“Were you serious about Christmas?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Shrug, his hand flailing out from his side and landing on Deran’s knee, “thought you might already be fever delirious when you brought it up,” a smile to cushion the tease.

“If I mentioned the romance package at the Robinhood Resort, then yeah, I was delirious.”

“You mean the Superior King Spa?”

“With in-room spa and fireplace?”

“King sized bed?”

“Jetted spa,” correcting himself, “definitely delirious.”

“K, then we’re on the same page,” he feels a smile lift his cheeks and crinkle his eyes when Deran’s hand lands on top of his own, still lingering on his bony knee. 

“Fucking Sherwood Annex building here we come,” he snorts out a laugh at the thought of actually booking a place with a cheesy ass name like that. Adrian should probably tell him to stop going through his tablet, but since he gave him the password to make himself feel like he was lying less, or had less to hide or something then he won’t. They aren’t to a point where sharing phone passcodes is a thing, Adrian doubts they ever will be. Deran would never allow Adrian that far into the family business even if he's given him all the bar passcodes and even a key to the place. He’s certain there’s not a dating app on his phone and he’s certain he doesn’t want to see the rest. It’s not a matter he’s willing to press, he’s not going to give Deran full access to his phone, it would only result in questions about the meets with Jack. Even if the texts are vague and have a predefined code to them, it would still spark Deran’s Cody alarm system. 

A deep breath, letting his head fall back against the wooden deck chair, reminding himself that this will be over. All this lying and hiding will be over. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really think Deran will ever get over his kid phobia, but if he did it might start happening for a kid that Adrian is invested in. I mean, I hope he gets over it for Craig's kid, but I also feel like it very much fits his character to be resisting his nephew at that point in his life. 
> 
> Fucking Sherwood Annex building here we come...


	15. Always Alone

Always Alone

Adrian is coming back. Adrian is gone but Adrian is coming back. 

Deran checks his phone. Knowing he won’t hear anything for at least two more hours. When his plane is supposed to land. 

Adrian is coming back. 

Deran might be obsessively cleaning the house. And then obsessively cleaning the bar taps. And the floor. And the bathroom. And he might be cutting up too many limes. 

Adrian is gone but Adrian is coming back.

Deran might be smoking too much. He might be drinking too much beer. He might not know when he ate last. He does know when he ate last. When he made breakfast for Adrian before dropping him off at the airport.

Adrian is coming back.

Deran might need to smoke a joint. In the office. With the door shut. 

Adrian is gone but Adrian is coming back.

The text comes through at exactly the time he was supposed to land. A selfie with a goofy face and the pink Aloha sign in the background.

Deran takes a deep breath. Finishes the joint and should probably find something to eat. His stomach is in knots. Like it always is when Adrian is gone. Unless he has a job. Something to focus on that doesn’t smell, look, or sound like Adrian. Everything in this bar, everything in the house, everything everywhere except for jobs are Adrian. 

No jobs though. Not until they’re ready for the one Smurf is planning. 

He taps on the desk. Hums around the place trying to find something to keep busy. Decides to tend bar. Decides he doesn’t really want to tend bar but it’s busy. Busy enough. It’s busy enough. 

By the end of the night there’s another text from Adrian saying, ‘the next time I come to Hawaii, you’re coming with me’. 

Adrian is gone. But Adrian is coming back.

Deran goes home after closing. Home. Stands in the bedroom doorway. Stares at the empty bed. There’s still an imprint of Adrian’s body right in the center of the bed where they fucked earlier. 

Deran sleeps on the couch. Certain that he’s the most pathetic human on the planet.

—————

Adrian is gone. Adrian is coming back. Adrian is gone but he is coming back.

Deran is standing on the porch at Baz’s. No, Craig’s. It’s too early for Craig to be up. Unless he’s still up from the night before. He doesn’t knock. But averts his eyes from the naked bodies on the couch. Backs out the door and surfs alone. 

He’s never minded being alone. When it’s by choice. He’s always alone anyway. Even when he’s in a room full of people he is always alone. But it’s getting easier. Maybe. Saying shit to Adrian. Sometimes. Shit. 

He has no idea why Adrian comes back. 

He always comes back. And when Deran wraps his arms around him in the airport he might hide in his neck for a minute. Just one. 

—————

Adrian is back. And he still smells like Adrian. And feels like Adrian. And moans like Adrian. 

He smiles. When he turns to look over his shoulder at Deran. Deran’s arms instinctively wrap tighter around him and his lips press against Adrian’s. His skin twists but not in the way the snake makes it twist. It twists in the way that only happens when he’s surrounded by this man. It twists from the tingles on the back of his head, down his arms and force his hands to pulse against Adrian’s chest. 

The kiss is broken with Deran’s groan, and Adrian whispers a laugh, “could’ve jerked one or seven while I was gone so you’d last more than ten seconds.”

“Funny,” snorting against his skin, rolling his hips through his own sensitivity, rolling them in a way that he knows will make Adrian shut up. Not shut up, not really. Going an immediate second round is no problem when those noises come out of that mouth. 

—————

Adrian is back and Deran still can’t figure out why he always comes back but his mouth is leaving lazy kisses across the nape of his neck, his shoulder, waiting for him to turn his head again and taking his lips. 

He thinks sometimes that he’s ruined him. He’s ruined him from the happy-go-lucky boy he was when they were kids. His smile has changed. It’s not as bright as it used to be. Being with Deran has ruined him. Or maybe it’s just a part of growing up. He hopes it just a part of growing up. It’s his choice to come back. To keep coming back. To come back every single time even when Deran can’t figure out why he does. 

—————

Adrian is back and for the first time ever in their entire lives of hurting each other, this is the first time Deran wishes he hadn’t come back. Sitting at Jess’s house on Christmas Eve. Maybe this’ll make them even. They can be even after this for all the shit Deran’s done to Adrian. Maybe this is the final penance for it. 

Jesus, Christmas dinner with Smurf and Billy and Pope, and Baz, Cath, even Lena, and Craig would be better than this. Hell, throw in a few unknowns and a few distant cousins or half siblings that Billy produced with some drugged out hippy chick or maybe a hooker in Vegas or something and it’d still be easier than this.

If he could line up every single person he’s ever gotten in a fist fight with, every single person he’s ever screwed over, every single person he’s ever wronged and sit them all down at a table to sort out the pain he’s caused them; it’d be easier than this. 

Dave. He’d rather be sitting at a holiday table with poor lung infected Dave.

Damnit.

Where the hell did Adrian come from? He can tell where Jess got her evil eye and her sour glare. The evil eye came straight from their dad and the sour face from their mom and they all hate Deran. Every single one of them hates him. Jess’s kid’s dad doesn’t seem to hate him but holy shit is he a bump on a log. Fuck. Well, if he’s been subjected to this holiday festivity for however many years they’ve been together then he’s probably earned the right to be a dud. Maybe if Deran stays still enough and doesn’t breathe or look at anyone he can be just like that dud and no one will even acknowledge him.

He’s pretty sure Adrian’s dad thinks that homosexuality is just some way Adrian has of acting out. Something he’ll get over. Deran almost chokes on his green bean casserole when he realizes in that scenario he’d be the stereotypical bad boy that Adrian brought home just to piss Daddy off. 

He’s pretty sure his mom must have some kind of permanent skunk smell on her upper lip. But she’s not that bad. She’s the only one who speaks directly to Deran. Even if it makes Deran squirm and that snake start hissing, ‘it’ll be okay baby’, when she asks him what he does for a living. 

Damnit. It was easier when Billy walked in and announced he’d seen a dick before. And ‘what are your intentions with my son?’ was nothing compared to this. 

He squeaks out something about owning a bar and she nods, but she still clearly smells something foul and he can feel that wave starting to roll over him, that snake starting to slither around his neck. Adrian’s hand lands on his thigh and he fights the split second initial urge to swat it away. Instead when it squeezes, Deran breathes. And the bar. The bar is something he can talk about. It’s a legitimate business and he’s a legitimate businessman. He can talk about that.

It doesn’t help that Charlie keeps staring at him. And the damn kid looks like Adrian in this weird enough way that it’s making him feel less like he’s just the target of that little kid radar and more like he’s back in preschool killing his Amargasaurus with is T-Rex and he just kind of wants to grab the kid by the shoulders and tell him never, never, to fall for that idiot because all he’ll ever do it fuck up his life. He’ll kill his T-Rex, hate his orange shirt, kick his ass in some public bathroom for no goddamn reason, try to kill his boyfriend, and ruin him. 

He ruined him. He’ll never stop ruining him.

He clears the table when everyone is done eating and he can’t look at Adrian. And he certainly can’t look at Charlie and he can’t stand being looked at by anyone in here. Not even Adrian. 

He goes out for a smoke and hopes their gift exchange happens quick and he can leave soon. But he doesn’t want to be a dick and pull Adrian away from this. Adrian has to be the one to want to leave. But Deran can’t go back in there. 

He checks his phone and for the first time in his life hopes that Smurf needs him. Nothing. His hand is shaking when the smoke rises, last drag and he either needs to light another or walk off into the partial darkness and never come back. The screen door announces it’s opening and the man announces his approach with a whistle. Same whistle they’ve used since their teen years.

Turning his head but not far enough to make eye contact, just enough to let him know he heard him and he’s okay with him nearing. Not just nearing. Walking until his palms are flat on the porch railing by Deran’s hips. Walking until the heat of the front of his body meets the back of Deran’s. And staying there. In his air, in his bubble but not touching him. Not touching him with anything more than body heat. It sends a scorching wave of regret though Deran. For all of it, for all of the shit he’s put this man through. 

He feels his hand rise, even though there’s nothing left of the cig he puts it to his lips for a second, a distraction. Something that’ll keep him from spilling it all, from apologizing until the world ends because there are never going to be enough. There are never going to be enough apologies. He takes a deep breath, Adrian cutting him off with, “I promise this will be over in a half out or less.”

“Hey, it’s fine. They’re your family, man, we can stay as long as you want.”

Adrian snorts, pushes off the rail with his hands and backs away, leaning against the wall when Deran turns to look at him, “well, we’d have been gone an hour ago if we were staying as long as I wanted,” his smile is calm, easy. 

How’s he so fucking easy all the time? How much of Deran’s life has he spent just wondering how Adrian can possibly be so easy? He feels a really stupid smile rising on his face and feels himself moving. Towards Adrian, breaking his own bubble and barging right into Adrian’s lips. Everything, everything inside Deran calms the instant Adrian’s lips part against his. 

It only stops because Adrian leans out, sliding a thumb across Deran’s jaw, mumbling, “you don’t stop, we’ll be standing out here jerking each other off when the Christmas carolers come down the sidewalk.”

Deran supposes if the payoff for putting up with this night here, Christmas Eve dinner with a table full of people who hate him, if the payoff is the man against his chest, the man who’s hand is rubbing a soothing line over his beard, the man who’s heart is beating calm and steady rhythm, eyes twinkling in the dim glow of the porch light; the payoff is this man then Deran would sit through dinner every single damn night with all the glares and pointed words and Charlie’s x-ray vision seeing the snake on his spine. 

A deep breath against Adrian’s lips, his hand not leaving his lower back just yet, keeping him close for as long as he can get away with. It’s three words. It would only be three words. It’d be so easy. It’d be so easy if not for that snake hissing in his ears.


	16. It Feels Like So Long Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrian is closing this one out.

It Feels Like So Long Ago

Adrian didn’t exactly get a chance to see the room before Deran was shoving him face down onto the bed. But what he did see, it looks nice.

“Hold on D,” when his lips start following the line of Adrian’s spine, “been sitting in the car for long enough to get funky, give me…”

“God forbid,” between kisses, “I get your sweat in my mouth,” a long, teasing lick that ends right at the tip of Adrian’s asscrack as his jeans get yanked down.

“Deran,” problem with arguing with Deran, is that Deran always figures out a way to get what he wants in the end, “just give me like three seconds to wipe up.”

His sigh travels over the line of saliva drying on Adrian’s back, “it’s been two hours in the Scout, you’re not even mildly salty,” his hands are already on Adrian’s asscheeks, beard starting to rub on his skin, “I appreciate your attention to cleanliness, always have, but just for once relax. Let me…”

“Lick my sweaty ass?” craning his head back to get a glimpse of Deran. Of course, Deran’s eyes are on one thing and one thing only. Just waiting for the, “go ahead,” groan. As soon as that happens, his tongue darts out and the groan turns into a moan and Adrian’s head falls forward into his hands on the mattress, “Jesus, Deran.”

Adrian is never going to complain about Deran’s oral fixation. There’s no reason to complain about it. Especially when he makes his way over Adrian’s balls, slides between his knees and takes his dick down his throat while his fingers circle gently, teasingly around Adrian’s rim until the tip of one is pressing inside. Adrian’s whole body shudders, eyes plastering themselves shut, fully giving way to Deran’s every whim. 

He has no reason to give any signals as to what he wants right now. He can tell what kind of mood Deran is in, and he’s totally fine with it. He’s going to take his sweet time with this. Suck and finger until Adrian is squirming and aching for release. Until Adrian’s thighs are starting to tremble and sparks are starting to rise. 

All the things they’ve done to and with each other’s bodies throughout the course of the last decade, it’s things like this that mean the most. It’s not what Adrian wants every time they fuck. Sometimes he does just want to be pressed against the wall and ravaged by a high-strung Deran who is desperate for release as quick and hard as he can get there. He always gets Adrian off in the process of chasing his own stars, he’s never left him to jerk himself off with an aching ass, even when he was breaking in the window and forgoing prep it never bothered Adrian. Sometimes that hot shot of painful stimulation is something Adrian craves even now that he’s not Deran Cody’s dirty little secret anymore. 

But now, right now, as Deran is slithering his way up the bed and situating himself under Adrian with a beautiful grin on his face, hands planted on Adrian’s hips, “sit on my dick.”

“Romantic,” sighing with a smile of his own meeting Deran’s. Sealing lips over lips and gasping into his mouth when he does, well, sit on Deran’s dick. 

“God,” he makes it sound like it’s seven syllables, head falling back against the headboard, eyes plastered shut. Adrian is glad for the time they spent fucking other people, as much as he’s always been certain Deran is it, he’s the only; he’s glad they took time to explore their wants and needs with other partners. Adrian’s not sure he ever could have cracked the Cody shell, he’s certain it’d never have cracked if he’d let it go on the way it was, the dirty little secret that followed Deran home from Belize. Maybe Deran discovered that not everyone would take his anger and his shame in stride the way Adrian always did. And he always did because he knew Deran as a friend first. A friend who needed him. And maybe Adrian learned that no one else would ever touch him with the passion that Deran does. Even if the passion bordered violent and he needed to learn to rein that in, it’s still a passion that Adrian understands. 

Making himself comfortable on Deran’s dick, hands braced on the headboard beside Deran’s ears. Giving him a second to gather his spinning thoughts, waiting for those sparkly blues to open, land on Adrian’s eyes and his calloused hands to clamp down tight on his hips. 

With a smirk rising on his face, Adrian arches his back, rolls his hips until the physical connection is nearly lost, then grinds back down quickly to the base. Knowing it’ll rise the response of a half-whimpered moan. He’s not going to lie, sometimes he’s pretty sure he could get off on how pathetic Deran sounds when Adrian is in control. He’s getting better, Deran is, at letting Adrian have it. Letting Adrian create the rhythm and flow of it, he’s getting better at giving little hints of what he wants instead of just taking it. Well, until he can’t take it anymore and he’s wrapping his arms around Adrian and bucking up into him, his head leaning into the crook of his neck while he breathes a few expletives and Adrian’s ears start rushing, blood pumping hard and fast through his veins in the key of Deran before his head falls back, his chest surges forward and he’s nothing more than a bundle of taut muscles and raw nerves for Deran’s taking.

He comes down to the sound of Deran’s grunt muffled into his sweat glazed skin, arms adjusting around his waist, one of them rising, sliding over Adrian’s cheek, tilting his face to angle for a kiss. Forehead to forehead while they wait for the tingles and zaps to recede. Deran’s pelvis stutters out one last lame thrust, riding the aftershock before Adrian’s body goes limp, sagging over him to the sound of an amused huff of air. 

“Mmm, nice Christmas so far,” watching goosebumps rise on Deran’s collarbone under the current of his whispered breath.

Lips on the side of his head, a hand stroking through his hair before he maneuvers them both with a few strained grunts, until Adrian’s on his back. Deran leaning over him, tangling limbs, arm over his chest, his kisses trace a line over his jaw as Adrian’s fingers wrap around his bicep and his eyes close lazily. 

He’s certain he could stay here. Just like this, for the rest of the day. Maybe longer. Maybe the rest of his life if Deran would let him. If Deran would love him even through the giant wall of guilt that’s growing by the day. Adrian tamps it down, now is not the time and here is not the place. This weekend is about fun. Snow. And a hot tub.

As he thinks it, Deran’s head rises. His face appearing over Adrian’s with a smile that’s so beautiful it takes the breath from Adrian’s lungs. He can’t remember the last time he saw it. Saw a true Deran smile. It aches when he wonders if it was Belize. It feels like so long ago. 

But he smiles back, and his fingers trace a line of goosebumps up Deran’s arm, to his shoulder, neck, and land in his hair. He doesn’t twist away from the touch, if anything he looks even softer now. But he’s got that Deran sparkle in his eye, the one that makes Adrian say yes to anything and everything. And that everything right now, he’s certain is, “what do ya think? Blue, black, or triple black diamond? Then a soak in that jetted spa over there.”

Adrian’s grown-up mind wants to tell him he’s not hitting anything with a black diamond at any point, he’s not going to blow out a knee on a downhill when he’s a competitive surfer. But the part of Adrian that is and always will be Deran Cody’s best friend is the only part of him that’s capable of responding to the eye-sparkle smirk combination, especially when there’s still bare skin on bare skin and a thumb stroking his jaw, “black diamond it is.”

The smile, the one that lingers on Deran’s face all day, it’s more than worth a damn black diamond rating. It’s the smile Adrian's certain he hasn’t seen since Belize. The one he keeps painted vividly in his memories. One he hopes never fades. No matter what life brings them, the memory of that smile will remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout this tale is told out. It seems unfinished and I'm unsatisfied with it, but I guess since it's supposed to lead into S4 then there is no way to be satisfied with it.
> 
> Alright, so There's Not Much Left is my post 4x13 work if you feel like taking that on. Thanks friends, take care of yourselves. Until we meet again... (in the meantime hit that little kudos button before you leave!)

**Author's Note:**

> I thrive on comments, so feel free to chat it up. If you came, you read, and you're here, then leave kudos. Thanks!


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